Detective Wars
by Scarred DNA
Summary: A bit of L's past, told from his POV. Loosely involves his battle with Eraldo Coil, a female fugitive using them both, and the case that secured L as the Greatest Detective in the World. LxOC. Pre-canon? Difficult plot, mistakes likely. CANCELLED.
1. Aftermath

**Tunes in profile:**

_Solitude_

* * *

**Aftermath**

* * *

**May 10****th**** 2001**

_New York_

* * *

He'd been pacing around this table for hours, stalking it from all sides in a predatory motion reminiscent of some large feline, his sable gaze never leaving the contents responsible for his anxious movements. Every 20 revolutions, he'd change from clockwise to counter clockwise, his bare feet squeaking on the hardwood floor and the rustling of his two sizes too large jeans the only sounds in the room.

_You'll find all the information I have, as well as some other personal effects. You can dispose of them however you please. Consider the contents yours, now._

But they weren't his, were they? This was evidence – all of it – in one of the most significant cases of his life. One of those cases that could either make or break someone's career. In his case, it had made his career. Made it in such a way, that he was now _the_ reckoning force of his profession – an entity so dangerously capable that his very existence deterred any miscarriage of Justice.

And it was one of those cases that left a vile aftertaste in his mouth – a taste he'd become bitterly accustomed to. Lady Justice, he thought in an attempt to describe it, eyes uncovered and defiled by the darkness of men's hearts. A violation of that immortal beauty that he, _L_, had played a hand in.

He stopped pacing, and cast a glance over his bony shoulder to the basket of congratulations, that the American government was so fond of sending, sitting in the corner. It had been there for days, untouched and rotting; a testament to him having completed his task for them satisfactorily like an obedient little pawn. He'd wanted to send it back, burnt and abused, along with his fee, but he'd refrained. He kept it there instead, for some reason still unknown to his consciousness.

After all, they weren't privy to _all_ the information regarding this case. As far as they were concerned, he'd tracked down the suspect, given them known whereabouts, and they'd captured the suspect.

Case closed. Outstanding work. Hope to work with you again. Here's a nice gift basket.

Now get lost, and never speak of this.

L returned his attention to the evidence in question. The case _was_ solved, so there really wasn't a need to turn any of it over. If he did, then all parties involved _would_ be aware of all that had transpired. What possible purpose would that serve?

It would get two of his top three identities red-flagged as renegade immediately, for one. Eraldo Coil for treason and some kind of conspiracy or obstruction of justice, among other things, and L simply because of association.

She'd told him once that governments were never fond of allowing brilliant minds to run around in the wild, unchecked. And now, L had no doubt that they were just looking for an excuse to turn on him publicly.

So, why go through with an unnecessary and potentially harmful action? They would never find out otherwise, especially with that MI5 dossier now in his possession, which is supposed to be the only one of its kind.

L started pacing again, his circling tighter this time . . . closer.

Did he really want to know after all? He'd went through months of what could only be described as emotional hell to find the truth; and now with it right in front of him, he wasn't so sure he could cope.

He pulled at his bottom lip nervously. He had no choice but to look, and then keep whatever he found. He'd agreed to do so, the fact that he'd been . . . incapacitated notwithstanding.

Still, did he have to do it right now? If it had been left to him, these things would still be sitting in their safety deposit box, and he'd still be madly ritualizing with the key. He'd spent almost a week hiding the wretched thing in odd places.

He'd wander around randomly before stopping in a doorway to one of the unused rooms, and he'd throw it into one of the far corners. The first time, he'd left it there for a few hours before retrieving it. Each time after that, though, the length of time would shorten. The last time, he'd held out for almost three minutes before manically running back to snatch it up, terrified it wouldn't be there.

Then he'd given it to Watari, and told him to hide it and not ever tell him where. That had lasted through two days of obsessive searching through everything, including Watari's personal effects, until L had found it on the third day - taped to the underside of a hard drive inside an unused computer.

After that, Watari had taken it upon himself to empty the box, and now the contents were finally here - calling him, scorning him.

If _anyone_ else had pulled a stunt like that, he would have dismissed them on the spot at the very least. But L trusted Watari completely, and Watari never did anything that wasn't guided by logic. If his handler, the man responsible for both protecting the World from L and protecting L from himself, brought these things here, then that was the right call.

L stopped, the beeping from her phone on the table interrupting his neurotic session. This was the fifth time it had went off in the past hour. Picking it up, he read the number on the display. It was _Merrie._ With a click, he dangled it next to his ear.

"Yes?"

"_Hello, detective." _The distinct voice of an American woman greeted him.

"Hello." He replied curtly, deciding against telling Wedy not to address him as such.

"_How's it coming along?"_

L remained silent for a moment, his eyes darting back to the table. "She told you."

"_She did. She asked that I inquire about your status."_

"I see. Is there anything she hasn't told you?" He hoped so. Discretion had been a part of their agreement.

"_There's a great deal, most of which you'll find if you haven't already."_

"I haven't."

"_Is there a reason for that?" _She inquired, not unkindly.

"Yes." L hoped his tone conveyed that he wasn't in the mood for further questioning.

"_I won't pry then, but . . ."_

L tuned her out, giving her autopilot responses, while he delegated the rest of his attention to the chain of events that had led up to this.

He'd been agonizing over the last 6 months nonstop. He ate them, drank them, slept them . . . they were always in his mind, being replayed and dissected every minute of every day. His existence was literally bursting with the information, and there was nothing to be done for it.

He always came back to the same piece that had been his undoing. _Eraldo Coil_. A man he had underestimated not once, but twice.

L dedicated much of his life to solving cases and systematically eliminating his rivals, gunning for that top spot with such intensity that everything else of what one would call a life had taken a backseat. For those years of his life spent laying the groundwork for _L_, he'd become something of a machine . . . completely immune to anything human . . . seeking out and destroying those he deemed hazardous.

And he'd saved Coil for last, clearing the field of all other opponents before engaging the last of the great post-war detectives. He'd enjoyed taking the codes of all the greats, including Danuve; but Coil he'd savored, because he'd become enamored with that detective's code. He'd loved the way Coil worked: his secrecy, his efficiency, and his loyalty.

And he'd wanted nothing more than to annihilate the man, and assimilate his reputation, his way of doing things, into L.

L snapped the phone shut, and returned it to the tabletop. That woman tired him out sometimes, but he knew she meant well, and she was loyal. A loyalty that would be his now, he remembered.

He pushed the phone away from the edge, disturbing documents and containers. One in particular caught his attention, his head turning slowly to follow his gaze as he fingered the clear plastic. He recognized the contents as a SIM card of his, the matching phone no doubt sitting in a landfill somewhere.

He'd lost a great deal _that _night . . . his phone, his sense of security, his clothing, right down to his boxer shorts. And he'd never expected to see any of it again.

* * *

This will be rated M for: detailed sexual situations, lightly used foul language, murder, suicide, rape, self-love and any other deviant circumstances I can think of.


	2. Cat or Mouse?

* * *

**Cat or Mouse?**

* * *

**October 10****th****, 2000**

_Unknown Location_

* * *

"You took longer than I expected." L dangled the phone next to his ear in his characteristic way with one hand while his other pushed cake around on the plate laying on the desk in front of him.

"_Don't give me that."_

A masked voice, that of a husky gentleman, answered him playfully. L returned his own synthesized voice.

"I expected some kind of contact, of course, but not anything of this nature."

"_Ah. You think I'm either desperate, or incredibly confident in my position. Is that it?"_

"Yes. I must say, it would behoove me to believe that you **are** desperate . . . that I've pushed you into a corner. But, I get the feeling that this isn't the case. It seems you've chosen the corner."

"_Hmmm, you're very perspicacious. A shame you're stuck playing PI."_

"I could say the same about you. What a waste of your ability."

"_Careful, detective. My head is big enough already." _There was a short mechanical laugh.

L shoved a piece of cake into his mouth. "The bigger it is, the more likely you are to make a mistake."

"_And you'll be right there, waiting, won't you?"_

"I like to think so. To be honest, whenever I think I have you right where I want you, I only end up finding you right behind me – with my pants around my ankles." He held up his fork, frowning at the chunk of chocolate in front of him.

Another laugh. _"Eloquently put, detective. In return for your honesty, I'll tell you that it's not behind you that you'll find me. Not my style. I'd prefer it the other way around, really."_

"Is that so? I can't say that I find either position appealing." he swallowed hard.

"_Don't be so sure."_

Both fell into silence. L took the opportunity to enjoy another piece of his cake as he found himself wondering if he had made the right choices in this case. The voice on the other line ripped him from his thoughts.

"_I'll show you mine if you show me yours."_

"I'm told you've never shown 'yours' to anyone in these circumstances."

"_The same goes for you as well, detective."_

"You're well informed."

"_It pays well. So, are you game?"_

L swallowed, and set his fork down. "I wasn't expecting this. May I ask why?"

"_It only seems fitting. Besides, I'm lonely. Humor someone whose days are numbered, won't you?"_

Silence, again. Both waited for the other speak, neither unsure of how to proceed.

"_Well," _a woman's voice spoke into his ear . . . soft and cheery_. "Are you surprised?"_

L's own voice answered her, low and calm. "I am. Not at all what I expected."

He heard her laugh again, this time a light sing-song sound. _"Isn't that just like a man, to expect one he considers his equal to be another male."_

"That's not it. All accounts have you as male." He quieted for a moment before adding, "Now I understand your meaning earlier."

"_As you can see, I'm not equipped for any ankle grabbing on your part. If I may say, your voice suits you perfectly. It gives me the impression of someone in deep thought . . . someone always in control of the situation. Your accent is . . . comical."_

"Are you trying to endear yourself to me?"

"_Is it working?"_

"No."

"_Then no, I wasn't. If that is what I wanted, then I wouldn't be on your shit list. I don't imagine you're one to fraternize with the enemy, so to speak."_

"You would think that, wouldn't you? In cases such as yours, I'm always willing to make an exception. You'd certainly have your uses."

She laughed again, the sound tickling his brain.

"_I'm sorry. Are you trying to scout me?"_

"Maybe. The way I see it, you aren't the be-all-end-all when it comes to these things. I'm sure I'll face even tougher cases in the future. Having you on my side would be a wise idea, don't you agree?"

"_My, you __**do**__ have an odd way of flirting with women. I shudder to think of your idea of foreplay, no pun intended."_

It was L's turn to laugh at that – a rough, childlike giggle that emanated false innocence.

"You said it yourself – your ego is big enough as it is. I think I've given you the false impression that I believe I am incapable of defeating you, but that's not accurate."

"_I see. Instead of wasting time with chasing the inevitable, you would just rather take the quickest way out – turning me."_

"Not exactly. You don't have to be "turned". You simply need guidance in the proper way of achieving your ideals. Compared to me, you're an innovator. But you choose unconventional means of achieving your goals. If you would look at things as they are, and not as they should be, you would see that you're setting yourself up to fail **spectacularly**."

"_Of all the . . . talk about self-centered." _She shot back at him._ "And the way you talk is both polite and blasphemous. Just as I suspected – you're the type of person that I don't like. You lecture at me, and yet you've chosen not to live your own life but to offer it up to the world."_

"You fail to realize that you fall in the same category as I." L responded quietly.

She sighed. _"Must be hatred of one's own kind."_

"It's not that I don't understand your motives." L started on the cup of coffee sitting next to his empty dish before continuing. "But your execution is poor. You have made enemies of a lot of people in high places. Manipulating people is easy, yet you've managed to make a total mess of it."

"_Manipulation wasn't what I had in mind. My intention was exposure. It's not my place to judge – let their peers judge them. I am but a vanishing arbitrator."_

"A vanishing **fool**, you mean. And once you're work is done, you'll leave a chaotic path of destruction behind you."

"_Wrong again. I will see it through until the end. Make no mistake - if that means I have to dispose of __**you**__ in order to accomplish my mission, then that is exactly what I'll do, and I'll make an example of you, the greatest detective in the world, in the process."_

L didn't respond immediately. Idle threats weren't a part of her MO.

"I believe you," he said quietly. "I'm surprised we are even having this conversation. To succeed, it would have been logical to eliminate your opponents before anything else."

"_That's true, detective. But I have a use for you, which is why I'm calling._"

"Use? Care to share?"

"_Certainly. L_."

L felt his heart skip a beat. "L . . ." he repeated, putting the ball back in her court.

"_That's right. He's proving to be more of a pest than I thought he would be_."

"So I hear. What does that have to do with me?"

"_Well, how badly do you want to catch me_?"

"More than anything." he answered honestly.

"I see. If the both of you persist in nipping at my feet with every step I take, I may just postpone my plans and disappear. Then both of you will lose. Is that acceptable?"

"So, what do you propose? An alliance between you and I?"

"_My, but you are a quick one. Temporarily, yes_."

"Why don't I just ally myself with L then, if I'm going to compromise so much?"

"_Why don't you_?" she replied curtly.

L pretended to think for a moment. "He's too unpredictable. I don't care for the way he does things."

"_And you want all the kudos, don't you_?"

"That too. Are you saying you're going to let me have you, then?"

"_That's exactly what I'm saying. The way I see it, we both want the same piece of cake. But we can't both have it and eat it, too. You might be able to stop me, but you can never catch me. I can run, but my plans will have been foiled. So I thought to myself . . . why not split the cake in half? I'll succeed, and you'll have caught your man. We each give up something, and meet in the middle."_

"If I refuse?"

"_I'll put myself out of reach of both of you. But I don't want that, and you don't want that. And I'm sure L doesn't want that. My surrender, under __**my**__ terms, is the best option I see for two out of three of us. I win, you win. L loses entirely._"

"If you lose?" he asked.

"_No one wins. Both of you will have to admit defeat, and I'll have failed."_

"So, you want **me** to deal with L in order to guarantee your success. In exchange, you'll turn yourself in to me? Am I to just take your word on the matter?"

"_Is my word no good to you_?"

"I trust you about as far as I can throw an elephant." He answered politely, as if he were complimenting her.

She chuckled at him. "_You do have a way with words, detective. Do you have an alternative in mind_?"

This was it, L thought. After this, there was no turning back.

"Constant physical proximity."

"_Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Is that it_?"

"I can't have criminal masterminds running free. Hindering L will give you more freedom than I can allow, so I'll need to balance his absence with my presence. You know this."

"_You'd put yourself at my mercy just to win_?"

"Hardly. I'll have an out at any time, and there would be consequences for any hostile actions on your part. Moreover, I don't think you're a killer."

"_That's an unwise assumption. I'm a very good actress_."

"Maybe so, but I've made up my mind on the matter, and I'm never wrong when it comes to judging character."

"_And you'll bet your life on this judgment of yours, detective_?"

"Of course. I trust myself completely."

"_Arrogant, self-righteous–_"

"I'd also like your assurance that you would preserve my life to the best of your ability, if this were to happen."

"_I thought my word was no good_?"

"Please do it anyway."

"_Alright. You have my word on the matter_."

"Confidentiality?"

_"As important to me as it is to you, if not more so."  
_

"I'd also require a signed confession."

"_Agreed_."

"Good. It's settled then. Now, what shall I call you?"

"_You may call me whatever your heart desires_."

"That wouldn't be appropriate." Another wolf in sheep's clothing.

"_Ouch. Your sense of humor is atrocious_."

"I'm sorry if you thought I was joking. That wasn't the case."

"I _see. Addendum to our agreement – the verbal abuse should be kept to a minimum_."

"Negotiations are over, you can't add anything now."

"_Zoë will be fine."_

"As you please. How will I contact you, Zoë?"

"_You won't. I'll be in touch. Until then, detective."_

The line went dead. Immediately, L sent a remote request to Watari via his laptop. He waited for that signature 'W' to fill the screen.

"Anything?" he spoke into the microphone.

"_Nothing of use. It looks as if it originated from your own phone_."

L looked down at his phone, his eyes narrowing. "How is that possible?"

"_I'm not_ _sure, but my best guess would be that she sniffed the network and cloned your phone's identity_."

"I see. Thank you."

L rested his chin on his knees as he pushed his phone in circles on the desk with his finger. He went over the conversation in his head over and over, each time categorizing and storing bits and pieces of information. He weighed the risks, running simulations of every possible outcome in his mind, and concluded that the benefits far outweighed anything else.

If he made no mistakes, and maybe even gained her trust, things could turn out far better than he ever could have hoped. She would unknowingly reveal more information than he needed, while believing she was giving him just enough. He smiled inwardly – she would underestimate him, as they always do, and give him enough time to get what he needed from her.

L sighed. That was best case scenario.

The truth was, he'd been on this case for months, and he was no closer to _anything_ than he had been when he first started. She had an uncanny knack for hiding, especially right out in the open. He'd went through countless statements from some of the most decorated agents any organization had to offer, and all of them read like some of kind of ghost story. No one ever saw anything twice, as if whatever they saw in the first place was never there. And then there were those little instances that no one ever paid much attention to, until after all was said and done, and only then did they realize how easily "he" was able to move around.

Any information obtained would never make any sense, and by the time anyone got around to checking it out, it was a useless dead-end.

Aliases, known whereabouts, even suspected holdings all had limited shelf-life, and were always expired by the time he found out about them. Apparently, making new identities wasn't something at all difficult for her. Neither was moving money, which still remained a complete mystery.

And the fact that all parties involved were looking for a _man_ didn't help anything at all. Nevermind that the rare few who'd actually talked to authorities all described a different liaison. It seemed as though she never used the same person twice.

So when she'd said disappear, L knew that meant that no one, not even him, would ever be able to find her. And he'd be damned if he'd let her just close shop and go back under the rock she'd crawled out from, leaving _his_ case wide open.

No. End of discussion.

More importantly, he'd be stuck obsessing about the whole ordeal – how did she pull this off, or why would she do that? Not being able to figure out the methods to her madness would drive _him_ mad, and he knew he'd never be able to let it go. If he had to add his name to the list of people who'd given up promising careers to pursue her, then that was fine.

Whatever it was that was forcing her to sacrifice her freedom was definitely something he needed to be privy to, and if that meant 'working' for her, then that's what had to be done.

Now, he just had to figure out how to play a convincing Eraldo Coil keeping 'L' at bay.


	3. Pale Phoenix

* * *

**Tunes in profile:**

_The Doll House II  
_

_Mausoleum Suite_ (Reversed)

* * *

**Pale Phoenix**

* * *

**Unknown Date**

_Unknown Location_

* * *

He stood before her, shaking. Picture after picture, she threw personalities onto the tabletop, grounding out each name with a particular trait the individual was known for.

_Sloane Kennedy_. Renowned for his love of sweets.

_Daniel Brizuela_. Believed his manner of sitting affected his reasoning abilities.

_Malcolm Gentry_. Held things abnormally, suffered from OCD.

_Nicholas Euber_. Possessed a phobia of socks.

_Christopher Slade_. Had an oral fixation with his fingers.

_Shiroi Ryu_. Suffered from chronic insomnia.

_Michael Shrewsbury_. Paranoid individual with an acute dislike for others.

She gave up, turning the folder upside down to create a cascade of dozens of photos that fluttered down, some floating to the floor at his feet. Shining eyes watched as she leaned over the table and swept her arms across it in one forceful motion, sending plastic people flying into his slouched form.

He took a step back, his chest painfully tight. His breathing became erratic, desperate . . . as if there was suddenly a shortage of oxygen in the room that seemed to be closing in around him. She reached down for a photo and brought it to him, holding it between them face down.

"Care to see your picture?" He shook his head ever so slightly – he knew what he expected to see. He didn't want to see it . . . he didn't want _her_ to show it to him. He hoped silently she would surprise him.

She twisted her wrist, turning the 8 x 10 over slowly. He held her gaze . . . his eyes searching, hers cold and dead.

After an indeterminable amount of time, he was the first to break, casting black holes downward to the unused photo paper. His mind blanked, ironically matching the suddenly blurring sheet. He blinked once to clear his vision, feeling warmth skip over gaunt gray to land on sharp ivory and make its way slowly downward.

Her hand was shaking now, disturbing the thin paper. Coinciding sound reached his ears, increasing with the movement of the paper. His brain delayed several moments before it registered the occurrence as laughter.

She was laughing, and shoving the object towards him. He refused it, swiping her arm away before reaching both hands out for her, skeletal fingers aiming for her shoulders. Sneering, she stepped backward and snatched her hands away from him. He pitched forward, the unexpected movement dragging his hands down the front of her shirt until he landed hard on his knees.

"Please . . ." he pleaded in a cracked whisper, his hands bunching into the fabric of her shirt. "_Please_." He looked up, his angelic face twisted in confusion and rising panic. "You know me."

She only gave him an empty stare, her head cocked to one side in question. "Do I? Who are you then?"

He hesitated, his hands clawing their way around her waist to hang on to her back. What would he tell her? What had been his first instinct? What _was _the first thing that had come to his mind? Find it. _Say it_! He wiped his face on her shirt, burying it into her belly. "I am . . ."

". . . L Lawliet."

He started and jerked his head from her, his upper body twisting around to find the voice that was unmistakably his own.

A pale hand shot into his vision, its elongated fingers reaching themselves down to him. His eyes moved up the slight arm that offered it . . . white shirt, black hair, dilated eyes, awkward smile.

"And you are . . .?"

He recoiled from that hand in horror, pushing himself impossibly closer to the female he clutched so tightly. L Lawliet's face appeared taken aback, unsure of what to make of the strangled sound and shocked stare it received as a response. Soon, it turned its attention to the right.

Another pale hand offered itself down to him, attached to the same slight arm, the same black hair, the same dilated eyes. This smile differed . . . natural, and easy.

"I'm Eraldo Coil. And you are . . .?"

Another. "Danuve."

And another. "Rue Ryuzaki."

Countless hands surrounded him, all with their own faded blue jeans, white shirt, pale coloring, and dark hair. All with the same droning voice, but each had different mannerisms. Some slouched, others stood ramrod straight. Some had shoes, others didn't. Some smiled, others remained impassive.

He turned from them, squeezing his damp eyes shut in an attempt to will them away. But he could hear them still, asking him his name, shouting for a response. _Who are you?_ _Your name?_ _What shall I call you? Identify yourself_!

Returning to his cotton cocoon, he frantically plastered himself against her lower body for shelter. Darkness gave him no comfort, only serving to amplify the dissonant demands . . . the hateful whispers . . . the heartbeat thumping in his ears.

Mercifully, he felt her hands - gentle and loving - soothing his hair and lazily caressing the jagged vertebrae down the back of his neck. They were quiet now, her ministrations lulling them to silence, but he knew they remained in wait for his answer.

His hoarse sobs subsided, stilling into hushed panting against her shirt. Eventually, he felt calm enough to raise his head, ebony strands parting around his forehead to give him sight once again.

Intense, black eyes stared down at him through droopy raven's feathers, regarding him as a father would his only wayward son.

"I am _L_." He smiled faintly, his hands ceasing their comforting movements and coming to rest on trembling shoulders. "Please return to formation."

It would end now, with his compliance to that wish. He would stand, mumble an abject apology, and move to join the others; abashed and docile.

Rendered spellbound by that penetrating gaze, he slowly rose from his knees. L waited patiently; lending cold hands to him before stepping backward, allowing him to move on his own accord in a façade of freewill.

"I'm sorry." He whispered the abject apology.

"I understand." L's features softened in an attempt at exuding sincerity, and he slowly raised an arm to indicate a gap in the circle made of him.

Not copies, but fragmented facets of the two facing each other an arm's length apart in its center. A selectively-permeable membrane of protection, its links always standing with their backs turned outward.

He turned to take his place among those fragments, but hesitated. Something was different . . . amiss. He moved his eyes over his surroundings, and for once he wasn't greeted with all black. He could see the far off walls, tinged with an electric blue. What should have been windows were mirrors, spanning the wall's entire length in small sections. The floor beneath his bare feet a highly reflective hardwood, pristine and cold.

And he could see her, standing a step behind of where he was supposed to be, staring at him from outside the chain.

L followed his gaze, flicking his eyes for a glance before returning to him.

Amused, he lifted his head just slightly to call to her. "Come inside."

She moved, not hesitating to step in between two identical forms serving as ends for the circle and stroll towards two more in its origin. He watched silently as L beckoned to her with a graceful move of his hand, and pulled her to stand in between them. Curling his towering frame against her back, L slowly encircled long tentacles around her arms and across her heart in a benevolent embrace.

He couldn't comprehend why she didn't react, even when those bewitching hands turned deviant; touching and manipulating her form inappropriately through dark fabric that contrasted sharply with his pallid skin. They both remained focused on him; L's unwavering eyes scouring for a reaction while hers' remained devoid of any awareness.

"Should I?" L inquired of him politely, his fingers toying with the first button of her blouse. He could only shake his head in response, knowing his answer would make no difference. He emulated L, bowing his head and observing through fallen hair as each button was removed from its catch.

His task completed, L took his time in tugging the material from her shoulders, and down her arms. He discarded the article in front of her before returning her to his embrace, dipping his head to rest his chin on her shoulder.

L looked downward at her before covering pink tips with an arm snaked around her upper body. Returning his attention to the visibly shaken voyeur in front of them, L brought his lips to her ear. She cocked her head ever so slightly, listening to his deep droning as she too stared at their single audience member.

Convinced by his rhetoric, she leaned back to whisper her short response in his ear before returning to her vigilance. L appeared pleased.

"Lovely and agreeable. I should keep her."

His eyes narrowed at them. He'd never known her to be agreeable . . . what was _wrong_ with her, to be so trusting of that dark-eyed fiend?

"I will repeat myself once again. . . return to formation."

"_Return to formation_." The circle speaks, their matching voices converging into one loud, monotone rumble.

"Return to formation." She chimes in, her expression matching L's in intensity. He stares at her, incredulous. How had L managed to turn her all too quickly?

L smiles at his lack of movement – a hideous contraction of muscle and thin skin – before sliding a hand down the form of his prisoner. He runs his fingertips provocatively over bare skin, lingering on the elegant curve of her waist before trailing down her hip. Again, she remains motionless. But this time, her eyes tell a different story to him . . . a wanton tale of passion and fire as old as man himself.

L pulls at her skirt, revealing a delicately shaped thigh. He knots it into his free hand until he finds the hem and secures it into the waistband of the material. Reaching down again, he gingerly fingers the faintly warm steel of a .45 silver short barrel strapped to her thigh. Triggered by another whisper, a reassuring squeeze of the white serpent still holding her, and a tender press of his chilled lips to her neck - her hand joins his in pulling the semi-automatic from its restraints.

With a flick of her finger and a tiny _click_, L rests his slender fingers over hers in stroking the brushed satin barrel against the inside of her thigh. Bit by bit, he dictates their hands over the black lace of her panties, the hollows of her hips, and around her navel, playfully making circles around it. He watches from above, piercing eyes following the pistol as one side of it is dragged across flushed skin. It skips over the arm crushing her against him to pick up its teasing journey at her throat, and above. Closing his eyes, he whispers darkly against her cheek and she rewards his wicked words with a shuddering sigh, her eyes never leaving the frozen figure being forced to attend their show.

With an abrupt jerk of his head upward, L regards the mirror image of himself with sinful spheres. He knows there will be no interference from that timid, cowardly role.

Turning his head from her, L forces the petite finger beneath his own against the trigger. With a loud _crack_, a crimson mist sprays the fragile porcelain of his angular face, giving one side of it a tinge of pink. Immediately, he releases her hand and lets it fall from her temple. The pistol hangs precariously from her tensed fingers until they finally relax, going limp with the rest of her. The weapon slips from those fingers, the weight of it forcing them to uncurl and release it.

L holds her body for a moment more before loosening his arm and allowing her to slide to the floor. Lowering his head, L glares at him through partially covered eyes, his expression innocent and completely unaware of the body at his feet or the blood spatter graffitied on his face.

"She's mine now. Return to formation."

* * *

_Return to formation._

The echo of that voice, _his_ voice, bounces around in his head, his brain still partially engaged in the remnants of the dream. It was recurring, always vivid and impossibly real; and he hated his highly developed imagination for it.

Opening his eyes, he immediately registers the first snapshot of reality. Falling asleep at his work area, he realizes as he surveys the monitor and unfinished coffee in front of him, was becoming entirely too typical. He fought sleep, denied it for as long as his body could tolerate, until eventually he would just shut down - a long blink turning into a handful of hours of sleep.

With a stretch of his legs and a swipe of his sleeve against his mouth, L takes a sip of the now cold coffee and strikes a key to his locked machine. He had nothing to do, not really. There _was _a bit of paperwork that he'd wanted to complete personally, but there was no rush there. He'd never been one to polish the routine of his life until it sparkled . . . he'd get around to it when the mood struck him.

Still in New York, he found himself taking frequent walks about the city of Manhattan. It was the bakeries here, producing confectionery concoctions like he'd never experienced. The Eclairs here were exquisite, and the specialty soufflé cakes he'd become so fond of lately made him melt with desire.

The bakeries and coffee shops were a staple of New York life, and he'd fallen head over heels in love at first sight. So much so, that he'd considered purchasing one of those prestigious apartments, that he'd only use for maybe a month out of the year at best. But when he'd mentioned it to Watari, the old man had just given him one of those _what are you thinking _looks.

L knew that, as dedicated as the man was to him, he would have preferred a return to England each year, if anywhere at all.

L sighed, reaching his hand to squeeze the sharp bridge in between his eyes. He was deliberately avoiding anything work related, and instead tried to fill his head with normal things. His walks had a lot to do with that, and his recent turn of nightmares had a lot to do with those. For the past few weeks, he'd lost any want at all to engage in anything new. And so what? Would the world fire L for playing hooky? Would he get socks from Santa next Christmas?

That evidence of his _still _remained untouched, and he'd gotten nowhere in trying to sort out the aftermath of its case. He'd fallen into a kind of quiet desperation about the whole thing, and then he'd decided to just take a break from all of it. This case had burned him alive, consuming him in such a way that he'd come to question his choices in life, his place in life, and his own identity.

And that, L decided, was perfectly fine. Expected, even, at some point. Not that it would ever change anything, for _he _was set in stone. But that didn't keep him from going through the motions in an often very human way.

If he wanted to languish in his cinnamon nest for just a bit longer before rising from his ashes like the Phoenix he was, reborn anew, then that is exactly what he'd do. Because he was **L**, and he could do what _ever_ he wanted.


	4. That Night

**That Night**

* * *

**October 17****th****, 2000**

_New York_

* * *

L turned the note over in his hands several more times before discarding it on the desk. He had come across the thing when pulling his phone from his pocket.

**Mandarin Oriental – Taipan Suite – 10pm**

**Keycard at front desk for "Mr. Sano"**

Idly, he sat in the gentleman's chair of his room, staring into his own thoughts in silence. He knew, of course, who he was meeting there. _Zoë_. At least, he hoped it would be her and not a proxy. He wondered if she was bold enough to show up.

Really, he wasn't even sure if she was in the country or not. Given her status, the States were a dangerous place to be. International laws protected her to a degree, abroad. But on American soil; she was a dead woman. Or should he say a dead "man"?

He found himself wondering about that as he recalled the incident in which he had acquired her meeting instructions that afternoon. He hadn't thought anything of it at the time, except for how awfully impolite Americans seemed to be, but now he gave it his full attention. He had been walking the street, heading back to his room from one of the local coffee shops, when what appeared to be a rather disheveled-looking street urchin had collided with him. He had apologized, of course, since he did tend to _not_ look where he was going; but the boy had only given him a hateful glare and said something about "chink" as he sauntered off.

"I don't even look Chinese," L muttered to himself as he unconsciously grazed the skin of his bottom lip with a fingernail.

L wondered if maybe this "Zoë" wasn't all she was cracked up to be. Couldn't she do better than hiring some homeless kid off the street?

He put the brakes on that thought the minute it snapped into existence. Someone who could navigate their way through his carefully created maze of secrecy was not to be second-guessed. Not only had she managed to get into direct contact with him on a private line – she had done it using that very line. _That_ had given him pause, and he had felt thoroughly violated, admiration be damned.

What else had she gotten into of his? His private files? Was she able to monitor the file transfers between Watari and himself? Is that how she had managed to not only stay a few steps ahead of him, but manage to turn and mock him? Did she know who he really was, now? Would he be walking into his own death?

No, he decided silently. The encryption used for their transmissions was an original concept of Watari's, and the line she'd used was for Coil's business only.

So what was the story behind her messenger?

Well, maybe she's some kind of twisted humanitarian, hiring the unfortunate to do her dirty work? Or, maybe she wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible? For anyone watching, it would be normal to see a homeless kid practicing the 'sleight of hand' ritual on unsuspecting victims. Or, maybe she had just been limited in who she could find that could actually _do_ it – especially to someone like him, who had himself engaged in the practice once or twice in his youth.

He made a mental note to ask her when he saw her tonight . . . if he saw her. He couldn't imagine her being trusting enough to actually meet with him face to face. But then, it wouldn't be the first time she'd surprised him, and he had the feeling she might again. Even now, L was impressed with the fact that she'd been able to track his location so precisely. Apparently, she also knew what he looked like and thus had the ability to follow any movement.

He found it a little unsettling . . . he couldn't find her to save his life, but she had no problem finding him. Thankfully, he'd made the decision to keep Watari at a physical distance at all times, only communicating by phone or computer. If he was being watched, and he strongly suspected that he was, he had to make absolutely sure not to compromise his most important secret - **L** - in any way. Although Watari was always careful, they'd decided not to chance anything given her ability of finding and watching people.

L Googled the hotel name, only to find it located a few blocks away from his own. Coincidence? Doubtful, considering who he's dealing with. He took note of the time – 8:49pm. He should start getting ready, given his habit of procrastination. Truth be told, he was a little excited – even anxious – about his meeting. The unknown was always something to look forward to.

* * *

L walked slowly down the street, hands in his pockets, head down - doing his best to look like a 'New Yorker' with not a care in the world. He seemed to fit right in with his worn jeans and plain shirt. That appeared to be the mode of dress for the others he saw in his age group. A few onlookers gave his odd appearance – pale, dark-eyed, awkward kid with a mop of damp black hair – a second glance, but most remained oblivious to his existence. What others thought of his appearance hardly made much difference to him, but that didn't stop him from restlessly finger-fucking the phone in his right pocket. He could function out here as well as he needed to, but he didn't have to like it.

Following his mental directions, which were practically a straight shot, he finally found himself coming upon the entrance to the Mandarin Oriental. He stopped right outside the hotel, and looked up. Not bad – so she had some class after all. Perhaps he should have dressed a little less conspicuously? He shrugged mentally. Oh well, nothing for it now.

L moved across sand-colored marble to approach the front desk, garnering a frown from the well-groomed attendant. His attire, no doubt. People liked to wear their wealth for all to see in this culture.

"Keycard for Mr. Sano, please."

The woman fumbled with something he couldn't see in front of her. He noticed she chanced another look at his clothing.

"I apologize for my apparel. The airline lost my luggage." He played with the phone is his pocket furiously as he gave a little smile.

She beamed back falsely at him. "Not at all, sir. It happens all the time."

Lies and pretense made this society go 'round. He felt right at home.

"Ah, here we are. Taipan suite on the 54th floor. Enjoy your stay with us." Her smile widened, impossibly, as she handed him the slip of plastic.

"Thank you. Good evening."

On the ride up, he checked the time on his phone. He was a little early according to the blue digital display , but he saw no harm in it. He wondered if he would get there first. Or maybe she's been there all day, and decided that nightfall would be the best time for their meeting.

He approached the door quietly and stood there for several moments. Silence. He put his ear up to the wood, and still didn't hear anything. No television, no footsteps – nothing. He dropped the keycard into the locking mechanism, and pushed the door open with his fingertips. After silently counting to 5, he stepped in and closed the door behind him as quietly as he could.

L stilled in the darkened room, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Once the dancing dots began to subside, he reached his arm out behind himself to feel along the closest wall for a light switch. Just as his hand came into contact with smooth paint, he heard the crack of what sounded like gunfire.

L jumped a bit, and instinctively crouched to the floor. Had he miscalculated? Did she know after all?

He stay crouched there - blood roaring in his head, his hands molesting expensive carpet - until warm light filled the room. He squinted for a second as he surveyed the room. Black and cream assaulted his vision, silk and glass fought for his notice. Finally, his eyes came to rest on the other person present.

She stood behind him, her hand on the lamp switch, gazing down at him with a stupid grin on her face. Once he noticed the deflated bag in her hand, he assumed his standing position to face her. Her eyes remained locked with his own as she watched him right himself.

"Your face," she giggled softly. "You should see your face."

"I imagine it's the face of someone who isn't the least bit entertained," he noted, a little annoyed. Control of the situation gone, just like that. Clever.

"It is. Very much so," she teased, eying him openly. "Well, let's get a good look at you." She discarded the object of his acute dislike at the moment and approached.

He reminded her of one of those counterculture cyberpunks from the 80s. Dark. Pale. Listless. She imagined his skin illuminated with the cold intensity of the reds and blues of the city's underworld, his eyes reflecting the darkness in which he hid. Someone she would expect to emerge from the shadows of civilization.

He had Junkie's eyes, reminiscent of one who habitually anguished in the sleepless aftereffects of intense drug use. Wide . . . unnaturally alert . . . irrationally paranoid. The skin below them was darkened and unhealthy looking, making them seem disproportionately large. She had assumed them to be of the darkest brown; but as she moved closer to him, she noticed a tiny ring of overcast gray surrounding each abnormally enlarged pupil. Technically, would they be black or gray? More importantly, was he high, or was it some kind of genetic anomaly?

His dejected form matched those eyes, lanky and lifeless, with his loose-fitting clothing hanging from the sharp angles of his body. His stance resembled a poorly written 'S', with knees bent ever so slightly and his upper body curved forward just a bit. His movements lacked grace or purpose. They were mechanically autonomous – nothing more than a conveyance for the brain. In testimony to the utter uselessness of the body, his shiny black hair lay forsaken on his head, sprawled about into unintended tapered ends.

"I have to say, given that low-pitched voice of yours, I didn't expect someone so . . . _feminine_." She circled him slowly as he fidgeted with the phone in his pocket. "Sleep deprived. Mal-nourished. Poor posture. Apparently impoverished. But, your hair is healthy and your skin doesn't appear to be bad." She leaned in slightly and scrunched her small nose at him. "You don't smell, either."

She stopped to stand in front of him, meeting eyes that were now narrowed into semicircles. "So, your appearance is by choice. Odd choice. You don't seem to fit at all, except for your eyes – black holes suit you."

L bristled at her callous speech about his looks – he detested being analyzed. "I wasn't aware that the way I looked would be important."

"It's _not_ important. I'm just trying to make you uncomfortable. I guess you were born uncomfortable, though, since I can't detect any reaction. You wear that mask of stone admirably. Your turn." She stared at him expectantly, her arms crossed.

His eyes roamed over her from the shadows his hair cast over his face. She looked younger than he expected she would, and if he hadn't recognized her voice, he wouldn't have believed it was her at all.

Dirty blond hair, that literally looked dirty, framed an oval-shaped face set with slightly round, clear eyes. Initially, he couldn't make out their color – only upon closer inspection did he determine them to be a washed out green color with flecks of blue. The eyes he would expect to find on a woman with an IQ of 90 and a plastic body – vacant and uninteresting.

She wore entirely too much makeup, turning her face into a palette of colors. The red painted on her lips, no doubt intended to advertise her sexual prowess, clashed harshly with the blues of her eyes and the pinks of round cheeks. He imagined he would come across dozens of her ilk in some red-light district somewhere, preying on a man's weakness for a pretty face. And her clothing –a black seam-detail suit with an entirely too low neckline – screamed cheap. He supposed most men would find her attractive, in a superficial sort of way, but he decided that he didn't like her at all. There seemed to be something very . . . off about her.

"My manners dictate that I pass." he said simply.

"Come now detective, don't be shy," she cooed.

He brought his index finger up to his mouth, and sighed. "You're appealing enough, I suppose, until you open your mouth. It detracts from your already offensive appearance."

She frowned at him slightly. "Wow. I bet you charm all the ladies."

"You're not a lady." He pointed out immediately.

"Indeed." She sighed and moved from her position against the couch. "Can't please everyone, I suppose. Come with me."

L slowly followed her into the bedroom where she reached down for another lamp before pausing in front of the closet door. Black and cream, again, with black cherry frames and doors. Very much 'Asian', and nauseatingly perfect. He disliked the wealthy, and their constant need for validation. He leaned against the parallel dresser as she rummaged in the closet, her back turned to him.

"We won't be staying here."

She quickly discarded her jacket onto the large bed set in the middle of the room, and disappeared into the bathroom. He heard water running, and caught the smell of . . . menthol?

"I didn't expect to be leaving so soon. Where will we be going?"

He received no response. Had he really expected one?

He frowned at her return. A wild mess of dark curls fell about her shoulders, replacing the lank blond; and the makeup was replaced by freshly scrubbed, pink skin. With her dark eyebrows and light coloring, he had guessed she dyed her hair – not worn a wig. Better, he decided, but still not quite right.

She moved to unfasten her pants before looking up as if expecting him to turn around or avert his gaze. When he continued to stare innocently, she only shrugged and returned to her task.

"You look completely different." He noted calmly as lace-covered hips came into view.

"That was the plan."

She looked up at him as she bent down to push her pants off. "You have no shame." She grinned impishly, seemingly undisturbed by his unblinking gaze.

"I don't pick up on, or care for, social cues."

"I see. They have pills for that, you know. I'd normally explain your ogling as being hard-up," she looked down at him, "but I see that is not the case."

L raised his head slightly. "Is there anything you won't say out loud?" He asked, the half-naked femme fatale in front of him not affecting his monotony the least bit.

"Not that I can think of. For instance, right now I'm thinking that you're a hypocrite." She stepped out of the pile at her feet, losing almost two inches. He guessed her to be about 5'2 or so – potentially a head shorter than himself if he didn't stoop.

"I've heard that before." He watched as she pulled the blouse over her head, expecting undergarments. Once he realized there were none coming, only cream and pink, he finally averted his gaze and took interest in his tennis shoes.

"Do you study martial arts?"

"No, can't say that I study them. If you're referring to my figure, I took ballet for years."

He couldn't picture that. "Why are you not a dancer, then?"

"That's a peculiar question. Two reasons, actually. According to the instructor, instead of being cat-like, I was too mechanical." He heard her move around, gathering clothing he assumed. "And, once I violated section 34-C, that was all she wrote."

"Section 34 – " His speech fell off with realization as he recalled the sight of her shirtless a moment ago. "I wouldn't consider that a violation," he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head, sounding utterly pathetic to his own ears.

She chuckled at him softly. "Is that a compliment, detective?"

"If you'd like to take it that way, by all means. I'm not blind, nor am I unaware of society's standards of beauty."

He flicked his gaze upward to find her dressed – a sheath dress of conservative grey that stopped midway past her calves – and sitting on the bed struggling with her matching heels. With nothing better to do, he looked her over again in an attempt to determine what it was that he couldn't make sense of.

He wouldn't classify her as a great beauty in any classic sense. While tall, blonde, and perfect was in . . . this woman, with her messy curls, fair skin, and five-foot nothing stature, was out. Her lips, he thought, were a little too full for conventional tastes, and her face appeared too youthful, almost girlish. Symmetrical enough to be pleasing, but very out of place when compared to typical standards of beauty.

"Your appearance says otherwise." She remained concentrated on her feet.

"I'm not a woman – I do not require sex appeal to be successful," he replied dryly.

She shrugged, crossed her legs while leaning her body back on her elbows, and looked up at him once again.

"Get undressed."

He shifted his gaze from the rhythm of her dancing foot to her face. He searched for a moment, but found no indication that she wasn't serious.

"I'm sorry. I believe I heard you wrong." He was certain he'd misheard.

"No you didn't." She gave the movement in his right pocket – he was fidgeting again – only a moment's glance before returning to the black voids of his eyes.

"That's out of the . . ." No, _that_ wasn't it. She wouldn't have already dressed if she desired carnality. She watched him as realization set in. "You want to search me." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. I'm not going to force you into this, so if you want to win, you will come here and take your clothes off. Otherwise, stop wasting my time." She very obviously liked dangling that carrot in front of him.

"I don't have a choice," he said more to himself than her. He removed himself from the dresser he'd been leaning on and moved to a spot a few feet in front of her, apprehension bubbling within his midsection. Silently, he chided himself for the weakness and reserved himself to doing what was required.

"Empty your pockets first, and hand me your clothes one at a time. Keep your hands where I can see them at _all_ times."

She sat up and leaned forward to accept the contents of his pockets from cold, long fingers. Lint, his mobile phone, a few pieces of miscellaneous candy, and the keycard to the room. He watched as she clicked open the phone and snooped. Satisfied, she set the phone and the keycard aside. The candy followed, minus a chocolate lollipop.

"I love these things." She muttered before popping it into her mouth. She looked up, twirling the stick in her mouth, and waited patiently. After a moment, she unwrapped another lollipop and handed it to him with a "feel better?".

"No." He answered simply, before throwing it in his mouth and raising his arms behind him to pull his shirt over his head. The static caused his already untamed hair to poof.

"Jeez, you know they have those little dryer things." She leaned forward again to accept his still warm shirt, and searched it for anything that didn't belong there before folding it neatly and laying it on the bed.

"Would you mind not talking?" he asked, bothered by her nonchalance about their current situation.

She smiled at him sympathetically. "I thought it would ease things for you."

"Thank you, but it is mildly annoying," he lied. The truth was, it was driving him insane, and he didn't think he could tolerate much of her voice sans clothing.

He stepped out of his shoes one at a time and handed them to her before reaching for the button on his jeans.

"Slow down, detective. I know you want to get this over with, but I have to watch you." She went over his shoes, fingering the insides and pulling at the rubber in search of any hidden holes or crevices. They went to the foot of the bed, next to her feet. She nodded at him to continue.

To his credit, his face remained impassive as he pulled at the fastening of his jeans and pushed them down to his ankles. They too went to her, and were searched as he waited. She went through each pocket, scrunched up and down each leg, and checked the waistband thoroughly. Once folded and set aside, she returned her eyes to him.

At a downward flick of her gaze, he sighed audibly. "What could I be hiding there?"

She raised a thin eyebrow and made a 'gimmie' motion with her hand.

L took a moment to debate whether or not he wanted to comply as he ran his thumbs along the inside elastic of his underwear. Compliance meant _winning_, and winning was everything, wasn't it? And he wasn't going to get this close to her on his own, that he knew. But if this first meeting was any indication of the rest of his time with her, he wasn't so sure.

What the hell, he thought – he'd get over it. He took the candy out of his mouth, swallowed, and shoved it back in.

Warm blue-striped boxer shorts dropped into her hand. She balled them up, stretched them back out, and laid them with everything else. Turning back to him, she leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand.

"Are you finished yet?"

She slid her gaze downward, making note of all 5 feet 10 inches as she played with her lollipop. Mal-nourished wasn't accurate. He could stand to gain a little weight here and there, but there was no doubt that there was physical strength in his slender body, his legs especially. She'd kill for legs that long.

Still, his features had an underlying femininity to them, with the faint inward curving of his waist and the exquisite beauty of the milky white skin that covered him. Subtle lining along his torso marked a certain toning of the muscles there, the hollowed out V crossing over his hips to disappear underneath dark curls. She could just barely make out the sides of his rib cage under his arms. All in all, she'd certainly seen worse.

In ages past, she thought, he'd be a delicacy reserved for men of only the highest status.

"Payback is so embarrassing, isn't it?" she answered after a prolonged silence. She laughed and looked up at his face, which he averted from her by looking down, his hair falling into his eyes. Without anything to play with, he clenched his hands at his sides. "You're acting like a child about this. And you know what else?"

He was ignoring her now.

"I can't believe you're not circumcised."

L's head shot up, and a hand came up to pull the candy from his mouth. "Really? There was only a 30 percent chance that I would be."

"I know. I just wanted to get a reaction out of you. Anyway, just turn around for me."

"I could bend over for you as well, if you'd like." he scoffed at her as he turned.

"That's only attractive on women."

He shrugged and turned back around to find her standing right in front of him.

"Hands, please." He put the lollipop back in his mouth and held out his hands, palms up. "Vitruvian Man, please." L complied, stretching his arms outward on either side of him.

"What are you looking for?" he mumbled around the treat in his mouth, watching her as she inspected first one arm, then the other.

"Any cuts, incisions – anything out of place. You'd be surprised where people hide things. Sound can travel through skin, as can certain frequencies."

"Not surprised at all."

"Hmmm. I know your type, so are you going to freak out if I touch you?"

He straightened a bit, and looked down at her. "I'm antisocial, not autistic."

She turned to retrieve a small light and a pair of latex-free gloves from a bag on the bed. With a click, she turned back to him. "Put your arms down, and hold out your left hand." He felt cold plastic as she set the pen light in his palm, and began putting the gloves on.

"That's a deal breaker." he eyed her warily.

She looked up at him questioningly as her hand clumsily grabbed the light from his own, her nails scraping against his palm through the gloves. It only took a moment for realization to reach her eyes. She smirked at him.

"I'm not _that_ thorough. I'd rather miss something." She reached up and pulled the lollipop from his mouth, putting it in her own. "Swallow and open your mouth."

L obeyed, standing there patiently as she poked around with the light. He wasn't as put out as he had been earlier. Once the surprise of it all wore off, it wasn't really that bad. The damage, whatever it might be, was already done anyway.

"You must floss." He felt her finger running along the sides of his back teeth, and under his tongue as he stared up at the ceiling. Bored with that, he shifted his gaze down his nose to her. She seemed genuine, if a little daft. Her sense of humor was a bit crude, but it didn't seem to affect her ability to work. And he had to admit, so far, she was _very_ efficient at what she did. Reinforcing that thought, he felt her withdraw her hands from his mouth and move to each side of him, shining the light in one ear, then the other.

She pulled back from him, removing the gloves and discarding the light. He licked his lips and swallowed several times, attempting to wash away the taste of the rubber.

"Here," she took the lollipop from her mouth and put it in front of his own. "You can take it, I don't have cooties."

L shrugged and opened his mouth. Chocolate, with or without cooties, was better than rubber.

"Just let me check your hair, and we'll be done."

"So I miss out on the turn-and-cough?" He bent over, lowering his head in front of her.

"This time. Actually, I usually have someone who does this sort of thing, turn-and-cough and all. But since you need discretion, you got off easy."

He felt her fingernails poking at his scalp as she ran her fingers through his hair.

"Well," she removed her hands from him and stepped back. "All finished. You pass."

"I had no doubt that I would." he muttered as he reformed his human 'S'.

"Neither did I," she busied herself with returning her torture tools to their bag, and tossing the bag back in the closet. After a few moments, she returned to him with two hangers of new clothing.

"I hope you aren't obsessive about your clothing."

"Not at all." he replied as he eyed the khaki slacks and pale blue dress shirt. It didn't bother him, not really. What difference did it make what covered his body? Still, he wasn't used to clothing so formal.

"You got my length right, at least. Underwear?"

"Not this time, detective."

L took the hangers from her and started on his way to the connecting bathroom. After a moment, she followed behind him, his cell phone in her hand. As he examined the clothing, she plugged one of the sinks and turned the faucet on. With his back turned, L didn't notice her remove the battery cover from his phone, pop the battery out, and slide the sim card from its clips. Not until he heard the sharp _snap _of plastic breaking did he turn around abruptly to see the mutilated phone fall from her fingers into the water.

"That phone was new," he lamented with a sigh, his shoulders slumping even more. How many more phone casualties would there be thanks to her antics?

"Then you won't miss it. I have one for you." With that, she walked out and closed the door quietly behind her, leaving him to pout and dress.

* * *

Note: Regarding L's eyes. A great deal of white and a great deal of black, separated by just a bit of gray. I can't help but wonder if they don't have some sort of significance to the black/white/gray colour system for guilt/innocence.


	5. L The Truth of That Letter

**L - The Truth of That Letter**

* * *

**May 16th, 2001**

_New York_

* * *

If he had to choose, the thing L liked most about himself was his ability to adapt to anything thrown at him. A true Chameleon, he could change and blend with his surroundings as was needed. If he needed to be a new detective on the force, or in informed diplomat, or just a forgettable bystander . . . he could pull off just about any persona and fool even the best of observers. Being an observer himself . . . a watcher whom nothing escaped . . . he knew exactly what others searched for, and used that knowledge to pre-empt any others of his kind.

Coupled with that was his talent for lying. He could look anyone in the eye and roll false truths off his tongue without so much as a twitch of his face or a change in his heart rate. Even the most sophisticated of detection devices couldn't discern what was true, and what wasn't. Sometimes, L couldn't even distinguish the difference himself. Some lies, he'd told so many times that after a while, they began to ring true even to his own ears. Whether that was on purpose or not, he couldn't be sure. Bits of information, memories, beliefs – things deemed inconsequential to his calculations – were often disregarded and forgotten.

Much like a child's brain will eliminate any unused connections in preference for more useful ones, L's brain often ended up tossing out information that was either extensively unused, or outdated. Not that it was a space issue, not at his young age. No, it was more of a _I like to run a tight ship _issue, so either earn your keep or get the hell out. As a result, L would sometimes find himself at a loss when it came to things of a personal nature, for it was those types of things that tended to go first. Some external stimuli would initiate a recall of a certain byte, only to find that location in memory empty.

If, after a thorough search, the data couldn't be located - L would either create new data, or eliminate the placeholder altogether. Some would call it a tragic consequence of having such an analytical mind, and there were times when L would agree with them. But usually, L would just consider himself lucky to be able to use it to his advantage, allowing the line to blur between what was real, and what was false. If _he _couldn't tell the difference, then no one else could either.

Another thing he liked about himself . . . his confidence. Confidence in his abilities, his strength, his determination. He knew what he was capable of, and he knew the limits to those capabilities, although he was quite fond of pushing those limits as far as they would go.

When he'd made the decision to pose as a newly acquired detective code in order to get close to his suspect, L had known that he was pushing his limits. Lying to people whom he'd never spent more than a week or two, at best, working with was relatively simple. But spending an extended amount of time with someone, while out of one's element, wasn't so easily executed. The probability of tripping over one's lies directly correlates with time spent.

So while he'd been confident in his ability to pull such a scenario off, he hadn't been blind to the possibility of mistakes. He'd never been around anyone he needed to lie to long enough to test his talent in such a way. And looking back, considering the rather unique circumstances, L thought he'd done rather well. He was, after all, quite human and thus fallible. Having a contingency plan for something that had never, ever crossed his mind was an impossibility, especially when he'd been doomed from the start anyway.

_Zoë_. Serendipity had smiled upon her, and Fate had decided to join in the fun, giving her an unbeatable hand. A hand he would have forfeited against _immediately_ if he'd known the outcome of the match. But as it were, he'd challenged it with the false belief that he would emerge victorious.

No. That was a lie. He couldn't say with 100 percent certainty that he would have thrown his hand in. More like 70 percent. No. Eighty percent . . . _ish_. The remaining percentage stemmed from his rather troublesome trait of not knowing when to stop, something he often had to rely on Watari's guidance for.

God love Watari . . .

Without the old man, he would literally succumb completely to the state of semi-rampancy that plagued him. And a full-blown rampant L having escaped from his bonds of worldly servitude would be a dangerous thing indeed, aggressively destroying _all _in his path before eventually turning on himself and self destructing.

When he'd first been found, he'd almost completed the first stage . . . having wallowed in a state of **Despair** for an unknown amount of time. Brought on by the realization of his circumstances, of what he was, or by the isolation that had been forced upon him . . . maybe a combination of all three.

Even at that tender age, L was becoming an apathetic, coldly calculating construct with a real problem with authority. Naturally, he'd been arrested and thrown into one of those miserable juvenile detention centers as a permanent ward of the state. Even there, they'd been unable to rein him in, and he'd spent a great deal of time in solitary confinement. It was there, in those cold and desolate rooms with nothing to do with himself but think, that he'd progressed into the next stage – **Rage**. He'd grown to hate his captors, their testing of him, and everything else he could think of, becoming malevolent and hostile.

At that point, with no one able to speak his language or reach him, he'd been left there to collapse in on himself and rot.

That's when Quillsh Wammy had stumbled upon him, and began his mission of taming the young prodigy. He'd visit often, feeding the mistrustful boy information in attempts at bonding with him, much like a man would feed meat to a wild dog in hopes of domesticating the thing. It had taken months of exposure, but the old man had finally learned to communicate with him by appeasing his need for intellectual stimuli.

Wammy had freed him, brought him back from the precipice of madness, and ultimately tempered his rage until he'd moved into the next stage of rampancy . . . **Greed**. His rage more or less subsided, L took on an insatiable intellectual appetite that demanded the expansion of his power via knowledge. It was from that state of being that L decided to become what he is today. Envious of all others who'd stood in his way, he'd declared them enemies to his cause and thus had sacrificed them to reach his goal.

But instead of tossing them aside as he had been, he'd chosen to assimilate them – embalming and preserving them within himself much like a Phoenix will preserve the ashes of its former self. He didn't just take their names. No . . . he took their entire personas because to L, it was a sign of respect . . . an honorary nod to those who had fallen to him.

It was also during that stage of envy that he'd learned to control his impulses, to a degree. He still needed Watari, and L supposed he would always need him. That is, until he could complete his transformation into the final stage of **Metastability**, which existed in theory only. As it stood now, he lingered precariously between the two stages – still greedy and wanton, but somewhat stabilized.

Because L was a _human_ construct – a sort of hybrid of true humanity and AI capabilities – he wasn't bound by the physical limits of space. In truth, L wasn't sure what it was that hindered his stasis. Even when he'd assumed that he'd completed his task - having acquired the last of his targets, Coil – he'd noticed no difference. Then, to his surprise, _proper_ acquisition had reared its ugly head . . . and still nothing.

It was nonsense. Some manner of tomfoolery that his brain still refused to comprehend.

With a slight jerk, L's hand broke from the skin of his face, and he stopped movement in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, causing the tide of people to part around him. He saw it . . . like random lights illuminating on a Christmas Tree of data.

He was _wrong_. It made perfect sense if he approached it from an illogical angle. He'd only gotten half of what he wanted, although that half had always been a whole in his eyes. But only because he hadn't known any better . . . had not understood what it was he was after. If he went back and rewrote what was then with what he knew now, then it worked. Sort of.

And if Zoë's shenanigans were responsible for him being stuck, then he was now 100 percent sure that he would have played the hand, albeit much differently. It wasn't a question of knowing when to stop, he realized. If he had forfeited, he wouldn't be as well off as he was now. Even without that one supremely important piece of information that ruined him, he'd somehow already known that things weren't as they seemed. He'd felt it, intuitively. And although he hadn't been conscious of it, it had stalled his progress nonetheless.

_With understanding, comes completion._

L went over the scenario attached to that phrase with a fine-toothed comb, now. Maybe, he thought with sharp clarity, she had a better understanding of the circumstances than he did. It was preposterous, but then his entire experience with that _idiot _had been one big, nonsensical ball of paradox.

She'd asked him, what seemed like forever ago, how they would still work together. And his response had no doubt been telling.

_Just as we've always done. You'll tell me what to do, and I'll go behind your back and do whatever I want._

Was that the problem then? He had to give her credit . . . when she was in control, things always seemed to work out just right. So much so, that he'd learned to trust her judgment in certain things. And now, was it in her dominion that he would find what he was looking for, and succeed?

L swiveled to his left, regarding the small pastry shop with something akin to a great awakening. He'd been putting it off for weeks, and now just like that, he was one step closer to a desperately needed reunion that he felt he no longer feared.

With a mental bounce in his step, L stepped through the doorway to start that journey.

* * *

**I don't own Death Note, but sue me anyway. It might be fun.**


	6. Under The Cover of Night

* * *

**Under The Cover of Night**

* * *

**October 17****th****, 2000**

_New York_

* * *

There was something very wrong with that boy, and to Zoë that meant possible trouble. Oh, she had no doubt that he was who she'd been looking for, but she wondered if he was good enough for this? She supposed that there had to be _something_ special about him, given what he's achieved in almost 21 years.

Scratch that. She _knew_ he was special; she had known that he was a genuine genius once she'd started following his work. His observation ability was without peer . . . but was he quick on his feet? Would he really be able to keep up with her?

When he had followed her lead, and asked to watch her work – something that had never occurred to the others – she'd been thoroughly impressed with his decision to take that risk. Not that she was entirely comfortable with him around. It was true that he would be easier to watch now, but that didn't make him any less dangerous.

To be honest with herself, she couldn't say for sure whether it was really this easy to manipulate him, or if he was only giving her that impression in allowing himself to appear manipulated? Maybe he was already aware that she knew it wasn't so easy to play him, and he just decided to go along for the ride to fool her.

Well, it made no difference either way. He _was_ being manipulated, and by the time he figured anything out – it would be done and over with.

Still, Zoë knew she had to be exceedingly vigilant of him – one misstep, and she had no doubt that he would pounce on her and devour her alive. She didn't dare dupe herself into thinking they were evenly matched . . . _she_ was the one treading on thin ice here. Getting a good hand was one thing, but being able to _play_ it was something else entirely.

Especially when her opponent was a card-counting mastermind looking over her shoulder.

The door opened, bringing her back to reality, and he stepped out.

"You clean up nicely." She commented. He shot her a dirty look while pulling at the material at his crotch. "Sorry about that. I didn't think about it, honestly." She explained, not the least bit apologetic.

"It's fine. What's next?"

"That face of yours. Come here." She patted a spot next to her on the bed.

He obeyed cautiously, sitting on the mattress in such a way as if he expected the need to flee to arise. He watched as she turned over a small bag, spilling the contents onto the bed. Makeup? L wasn't sure how much more of this he could tolerate without getting nasty about it. But he kept quiet as she leaned in to apply feminine concoctions to his skin.

"I want to darken you up a bit . . . give you that Euro-trash look." she explained as she worked. He didn't give a damn what she did – he just wanted it over.

Zoë noted the look of irritation in his eyes, and she was almost tempted to shove the tip of the eyeliner pen into one of his unsightly eyes. He had no business acting as though he was doing _her _a favor when he was the one to benefit from this. He had asked her, not the other way around. The fact that she'd guided him into it was irrelevant.

In the end, she refrained and only concentrated on making the unhealthy skin around his eyes look intentional. A shame he remained absolutely still to avoid any _accidents_ as she ran the tip back and forth along the bottom line of his eye, creating a thick pool of black.

L fought the urge to jerk back or swat at her. He wasn't used to someone so close, and he _never_ allowed anyone to even touch his eyes, nevermind abuse them the way she was currently. Not that he'd ever let on, but they were a sensitive subject for him. His guess was as good as anyone else's as to why they were the way they were, and he wasn't very appreciative of people who breached the issue.

He felt himself relax when she stopped drawing on his eyes and moved to pick up a different means of torture. Cold touched his skin as she applied a slimy substance to his cheeks, and then harshly rubbed it in. Her fingers slid over his nose, his chin, and his forehead once she pushed his hair back. Whatever the stuff was, it felt heavy and disgusting and he had this urge to touch his face. Next came a brush, its bristles tickling the soft skin of his lips, and occasionally going up his nostrils. _This _was putting on makeup? The way she turned his head and manipulated his skin, it felt instead like she was roughing him up.

Something snagged and pulled at his lower lip and this time he did snap back, flicking narrowed eyes to her as he instinctively pulled the wounded skin into his mouth.

She laughed at the tiniest grimace he gave her. "It's wax. It's not supposed to taste good." She leaned in and dragged a thumb pad across his lip. "It won't work if your lips are wet, so stop that."

She tried again, applying a hint of pink to the ridged flesh. "Now, go like this," she pressed her lips together, and slid them together. "That's good." She nodded approvingly at his emulation of her movement before finishing the blending job with her finger. "There." She leaned back to admire her work.

"What about my hair?"

"A hat will have to do. That Steven Spielberg look is very in at the moment, thankfully." She handed him a black hat. "Now come and look."

L pushed his hair back and adjusted the hat before moving to stand next to her in front of the mirror behind the door.

"Artist of the Century, don't you think detective?"

He cocked his head to one side, trying to decide whether he liked it or not. **"**I don't recognize myself**."** He took a step closer. His face looked almost healthy, even with the artificial dark rings and sans the pale complexion. Healthier, and older, and quite obviously meant to advertise homosexuality.

"Good. That means no one else will recognize you either. The two people who walked into this hotel need to stay here."

He stared for a moment more before moving his eyes to her in realization. "That was _you_. What makes you think I'm Chinese? I barely look Asian."

She smiled knowingly at him. "It's your hair, and your coloring."

L shrugged. He'd never thought much about it, but he supposed he did look a little too out of the ordinary for a white boy.

"Although, based on your previous state of undress, I'd guess you have very little of whichever it is in you."

"Your commentary on my anatomy is not necessary, you know." Her teasing was beginning to rattle him a bit.

"You don't take compliments well, I see. At any rate, we need to get a move on. Get your shoes and let's go."

He moved to comply. "What about everything here?"

"Someone will be along shortly to take care of the room."

"Where are we going?"

"Enough with the questions, _investigator_. We will speak on the matter when we leave." She grabbed her hand purse, and waited for him to walk past her to the door. "Stand up straight. I won't have you undoing all my hard work with laziness."

"I'm sorry. It's not a conscious action."

She nodded. "We are walking out of here as a couple."

L nodded back at her, signifying his understanding. They walked side by side, arm in arm, down the hallway and to the elevator. The ride down was quiet, both leaving the other to their thoughts. He turned his head to look down at her once or twice, but she remained focused on what was in front of her. Without looking, she addressed him quietly.

"When we reach the street, look at the loiterers closely, but inconspicuously. Search for a tall gentleman with brown hair and a beard."

Out in the open, she was all business. As they walked through the lobby, she remained close against him just as a lover would. He found that it didn't really make him as uncomfortable as he thought it would, and he accustomed himself to it quickly. Every so often she would look up at him coyly with a random comment, and he would answer with a fake smile.

Finally, they were out on the street and walking to a destination unknown to him.

"You're very good at this." she commented quietly.

"I'm good at everything I do."

"That includes being a pompous ass, apparently."

L cast her a sideways glance before jerking her against him with the arm he had around her. She stumbled, just as he'd expected.

"He was there, across the street talking to a prostitute. Who is he?"

"An 1811."

"Eighteen-Eleven? They don't know what you look like."

"Not as who I really am, no. But as a low-level grunt, they know exactly who they're looking for. I'm a person of interest."

"I wasn't aware of that."

"You wouldn't be just yet. Marshals were given first crack. Turn left on W 58th."

He turned her down the sidewalk, and they walked in silence one parallel block from Central Park. It was a lively night, and the streets were filled with people on their way to whatever entertainment their heart desired. Couples, trios, loners . . . everyone was dressed up with somewhere to go.

"First time in New York?"

"First time in the Upper East area."

"And what do you think?"

L examined the people walking past them, sharing a smile with a scantily clad young lady hanging on the arm of a random socialite.

"Very romantic, but it's almost too perfect. I find it all very surreal."

Zoë laughed. "It's a playground for the wealthy. It's supposed to be perfect."

"Wealth equals perfection now?"

"Wealth is a form of perfection that most strive for." She glanced at him. "You're wealthy, aren't you?"

"You know that I am. But it's not something I've ever strived for. It comes with the territory."

"Your manner of dress makes that very clear, detective."

L shrugged. "Anything below the neck is irrelevant." He jabbed a finger into the hat on his head. "It's what's here that matters to me."

She made a noise of agreement. "We're right next to the Sherry Netherland."

"And I'm certain that's no coincidence." L replied wryly.

"Not at all. It's almost directly across the park from the Mandarin. Why that hotel, anyway?"

"They had the best variety of international food."

"I see. Another left on Madison, and we'll be there in a moment."

"Care to tell me where we're going now?"

She snapped open her hand purse and handed him a blue ticket. He dangled it in front of his vision, reading the white print.

"Spinal cord research?"

"It's a benefit for the affluent – makes them feel important when they donate. We're just walking through, down to the parking garage."

"Forty grand for a walk through?" He'd never put much into money since he had all that he needed, but that sounded just a bit extreme.

"Helping people like _you_ makes me feel important." She answered dryly. L took the hint, straightening himself again.

They stopped at the open doors of an upscale apartment, music from a window spilling out onto the sidewalk.

"Alma Cogan." Zoë commented to herself.

"That's Jo Stafford." L corrected offhandedly as they climbed the steps.

Zoë slid him a quick glance. "I'm pretty sure that's Alma."

He stopped and turned slightly to her, listening. "No. You're wrong. I don't see how you can even confuse the two since their music sounds nothing alike." He climbed a few more steps, catching up and surpassing her. "Sorry, but if you were right, I'd agree with you." he added with a backward glance at her advancing behind him.

"Oh, what do you know anyway." She shot back, a little irritated by his cockiness.

"Pardon me, Miss. That is currently Jo Stafford." The young man accepting their tickets broke in with a neutral smile.

"Thank you." Zoë replied curtly, eyeing him in such a way as to let him know that she didn't appreciate the opinions of the hired help. With a blush, he hastily stepped sideways to let them pass.

"Your Majesty is moody." L purposefully said it loud enough for the embarrassed boy a few steps behind them to hear.

"Says my court jester." Once several feet down the hallway and out of earshot, she lowered her voice. "Walk slowly. Don't slouch. Don't leave my side. Disappear from my sight for _any_ reason, and you'll never see me again. Got it?"

With a bored sigh, L rolled his eyes. "As Her Highness pleases."

People were everywhere, looking at him, touching him, smiling at him. Most of the men gave him hard looks of unspoken hostility, from being with Zoë no doubt, which he ignored. But the women, and even some of the men, were much more welcoming. Fresh meat, he suspected. Apparently, she'd outdone herself with the '_I'm rich and bored'_ look.

"Zoë!"

They both turned to a young blond man making his way through the crowd toward them.

"Trevor." She responded with a smile.

"I didn't think you'd make it." He addressed her, but pinned interested blue eyes on the lanky form next to her. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Camille. Just in from Paris, here on _pleasure_."

"I see." He smiled appreciatively as he shook L's hand, his strong fingers lingering over the delicate skin. "And is Camille going to be with you during his stay?"

L opened his mouth to object at the very obvious attempt to pick him up when Zoë leaned into the man on her tip toes, whispering in his ear. This Trevor continued to stare at him as she spoke before gasping with an "_Oh, my_", and looking down deliberately. They separated, Trevor still staring at him, although now in a new light.

"Really, darlin' . . . you must call me. Three's a crowd, and four is a good time." He winked at L.

"I'll remember next time. Keys?"

He started, pulling his eyes away from L to produce what she asked for, before excusing himself to chase something else that caught his eye.

"What was that about?" He inquired as they moved through the crowd toward the exit.

"I told him that both you and your partner are staying with me, and the rest involved our need for another player and a slight exaggeration of the size of your 'deck."

"But Zoë, I'm not gay." He whined as they quickly approached the stairwell. He repeated the words once they were in the garage, looking for the right vehicle.

"That might be true, but you certainly look the part. No sense in crushing Trevor's hopes." She pressed at the key fob in her hand before finally being rewarded with a low beeping from a nearby Acura. "Here we go."

L pulled at the material at his thighs before squatting in the passenger seat next to her, balancing himself with ease on the leather seat. She only gave his abnormal way of sitting a moment's glance before telling him to secure his seatbelt.

All brilliant men had their quirks, and if this one wanted to pretend he was a pasty monkey in designer clothing, that was his business.

"Can we speak freely?" He asked, staring out the window as amber light flickered across his vision.

"Yes."

"Where are we going?"

She sighed. He wasn't going to give up. "North. We're taking a private business flight to a border town where I spend most of my down time."

"Canada?"

"For now. I still have a few things to take care of in the states, but I prefer to avoid spending any extended amount of time here if I can. I'm already risking enough as it is in coming to get you."

"That's one of the countries that denied my request to waive your diplomatic immunity." L commented a little disheartened, turning to look at her. She smiled, all too happily.

"I know. Don't feel bad . . . L was denied as well."

"I hear he's working with the American government now in order to secure the cooperation of those countries."

"I heard that. Unfortunately, by the time those wheels start spinning, the party will be over."

L resumed his watch on the outside world with a sigh. She was right – for all his ingenuity, L still had to wade through red-tape and play games of pretense.

"What about my hotel room?"

"You can make any arrangements you need to once we're airborne. You'll have a phone for your own personal use."

L wanted to reply with some snide comment, but he refrained. She wasn't doing anything that he wouldn't have done if their roles were reversed – one could never be too cautious in this line of work, and paranoia rang synonymous with survival. Still, this violation of his privacy was all very new, and _very_ stressful.

L had the very distinct feeling that he'd crawled into a Giant Hornet's nest covered in honey – with every single resident staring intently at him, ravenous. He'd seen a honey bee hive annihilated by only a handful of those Hornets before, and it had been unsettling.

"Asian Giant Hornet. Do you know what that is?" He asked randomly, peering at her as he ran a finger along his dolled up lips.

"Oh, yes. They steal honey bee hives, killing the occupants in a matter of hours." She cast him a quick glance. "Did you know that the Japanese honey bee is the only bee that has a defense against them? The bees will allow the scout to enter, giving him a false sense of safety, and when he gets far enough into the hive, they cover him and roast him alive with their body heat."

L grimaced slightly. "I think I'd rather just lose my head."

"Not if you're a honey bee. They live for some time afterwards. It's really very sad, the carnage left behind by those hornets."

L didn't want to be a honey bee, or a hornet. He wanted something peaceful, lazy. "I'd just settle for a sea squirt. Find a rock, and sit there for the rest of my life." Alone.

"As long as you don't mind eating your own brain."

He pondered that for a moment, his eyes cast upward. "I wouldn't mind, as long as it's sweet. Something like strawberry, with cream." It was feeding time, and he was famished.

Zoë laughed at him. "No, no – you'd need to deep fry or roast it to kill any parasites. Something like . . . chicken, with lemon."

"I'm already eating my brain Zoë, why would I worry about parasites?"

"You can't eat it all. You could feed a family of 5 with that thing . . . you have to share."

"No. I'll just save some for a midnight snack."

They changed direction, the street lights becoming scarce.

"I'm hungry, Zoë. Is there somewhere we can stop?"

"This isn't a joyride, detective. Food will be available on the plane."

"Dessert?"

She looked at him as if he were a wayward child. "Probably. What difference does it make? Food is food."

"I prefer . . . sweet food."

"Are you going to have some kind of confectionary fit if I don't stop?"

"That's probable."

"Good grief." She muttered, not bothering to hide her annoyance. She despised children, and this neediness was exactly why.

Once they stopped, L held out his hand to her expectantly, his eyes locked onto his destination. When nothing came, he turned to her in question. "Money?"

Zoë rolled her eyes at the request before pointing to the glove box. "Get me something to drink while you're in there."

"Anything specific?" He asked, his hands pulling at objects carelessly until he found what he needed, and not bothering to pick up after himself.

"I don't care. Something fruity."

L nodded before opening the door and stretching one long leg out to the ground. As an afterthought, he paused for a moment before quickly reaching over to turn and pull the keys from the ignition with a hastily mumbled apology. Zoë only watched, amused, as he walked into the store like an elderly man with a hip replacement.

There was something _very_ wrong with that boy, and Zoë now knew that it meant trouble.


	7. Liar

**Liar**

* * *

**October 18****th****, 2000**

_En Route_

* * *

The rest of their trip remained, thankfully, uneventful. He'd gotten his fix, and she'd occupied herself with getting them to the private airport in one piece.

L gave the woman sitting as far away from him as possible a quick glance as he spoke quietly to Watari. Instinctively, both of them had made for opposite ends of the cabin as soon as they boarded. He wondered if he repulsed her, or if she had just needed to conduct business in private. Maybe for both reasons.

L turned his attention back to the order of coffee sitting beside him, dropped a handful of sugar cubes in the cup, and stirred it absentmindedly. He didn't have much experience with women on a personal level, aside from what he saw on the little bit of television he watched or the books he read, but he was sure that nothing could have prepared him for this one.

Weren't women supposed to be flowers? They were named after them often enough . . . Rose, Daisy, Lily. Sugar, spice, and everything nice, right? They are the nurturers – warm and welcoming.

So why did this one resemble a Venus Flytrap? Seemingly harmless enough, with bright colors and the enchanting promise of a sweet nectar for any who would dare to venture inside. But for those brainless enough to undertake that journey, L had no doubt that they would end up just as their forerunners had, trapped and digested.

With the realization that he was a she, L felt confident in assuming that it wasn't simply her ability to pre-empt law enforcement that kept her at large. It was her ability to _turn_ them. She wasn't a Chess prodigy, moving across the board to capture the King. She was a Checkers wizard, crowning men and using them to move along the board as she wished. L could only speculate at how many of his comrades cooperated with her, and at what price? He knew better than most that everyone had a price; even himself, although he didn't know what it was yet. But if it wasn't monetary, then what? A taste of her charms, or an affinity for her cause? Maybe the desire to be a part of something forbidden, or a little experience with the other side of the law?

He found himself very interested in the mechanism that he _knew_ gave her an all access-pass to her pursuer's information.

He could always just ask her, but that might not go over so well just yet. Not that he cared if he offended her . . . it made no difference to him. But he wasn't familiar enough with her patterns to predict her response, and for all he knew her response might be to turn tail and scramble back under her rock. L couldn't imagine someone in her position being so sensitive, but she was female and that little fact could possibly negate any rationality in her mind. He didn't know one way or the other, so L concluded it best to just keep his mouth shut – at least until he was in a position to question her in a controlled environment.

"_So, is it really him? Or her?"_

Watari's voice seeped into his brain from the earpiece, his questions and comments no longer the hum-drum of routine. Where was he going? How was he getting there? Should he follow?

"I can't say with 100 percent certainty, but I think so. If not, she's the best proxy I've ever seen."

"_Can_ _you describe her_?"

L gave her another sideways glance. "Not with any accuracy. She changes her appearance." He slurped at his coffee loudly. "The boy in the street today was her." He heard the old man chuckle lightly into the phone. "It's not funny." _Watari_. He was so used to saying it, that he added it in his head even if he didn't speak it aloud.

"_I beg your pardon, I can't help it. Young ladies today are just so much different than when I was your age. But you're right, it's not funny if she knew what you looked like, and where you were staying. Do you know how she obtained that information?"_

"No. But I think it's best if we assume that she picked up on me a long time ago, and act according to that."

"_Do you think–"_

"No." He cut the old man off, and left it there. He knew Watari knew better, even though the line was secure, but it wasn't something he wanted to throw up to chance. There was absolutely nothing that connected him to '**L'** that anyone would see even if they'd been watching him for months.

"_I know. But don't you think it's risky to show yourself as Coil?"_

"I do. It was either that, or the alternative. I don't think she would have responded to anything else." He heard his handler sigh. Watari, ever the voice of wisdom and prudence. He never disregarded the old man's advice, but he didn't always follow it either. It was a rare thing, for them to disagree, but when they did Watari always made sure that L knew how he felt. "Have you ever known me to be wrong about someone? I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe with absolute certainty that I'd be safe. I'll be fine."

He lied easily in an effort to ease the other's fears. Well, part of it was true. He _did_ believe that she was sincere, but he wasn't certain of it.

"_What is it you'd like me to send along_?"

"Personal effects. My notes on the case up to a month ago. Cards and paperwork for . . . Michael Codrum and Ryu Tatsumaki. Also, someone from the private sector with contacts off the books." L paused a moment, working to make sure he'd left nothing out. "Cash. Five thousand American dollars and seventy-five hundred Canadian. Everything else she will provide."

"_And you said these things will be searched?"_

"Yes. _Thoroughly_. She won't allow it otherwise." She hadn't been willing to allow it in the first place, but he'd pestered her about it nonstop for twenty minutes, and she'd grudgingly agreed just to shut him up. He wasn't obsessive about his clothing . . . he just wanted to wear his own damn clothes. Perfectly normal for a human being.

"_I see. I'll send them straight from the Sherry. Is this a number I can expect to hear from again?"_

"Yes. One of the guests at the party was kind enough to loan it to me." He'd swiped it from some guy's hip holster when they'd been navigating their way through the ballroom. The phone she'd given him, still laying next to his coffee cup, was fine for other business . . . _not_ for Watari. "Please trace the number, send the owner a new phone, and pay his bill for a year with the condition that this one remain active."

"_Understood_."

L snapped the stolen phone closed just as the aircraft began its descent. The flight had been relatively short – not even two hours – so L knew they hadn't gone too far north. Sable eyes slid to the edges of their sockets, taking in the sights below. They'd flown low, so he'd been able to see from a distance the night lights of civilization that dotted the coast. Still, he wished it were daylight so he could clearly make out the terrain. Was it snowing yet? Were the mountains just as serene and breathtaking as he'd seen in pictures? Were there frozen lakes to ice skate on? Not that he could ice skate, but he'd try anything once.

If he was truthful with himself, L was just a little bit excited. He'd never been to Canada before, and there was something within him that was practically crying out for the wilderness he associated the country with. Something that gave him the most comforting sense of desolation when he thought of being surrounded by nothing but sparkling, white blankets and the cool blue of ice.

Just him. Alone. On his own private trek into the harsh conditions of the unknown. A sense of loneliness and wonder driving him forward.

Traveling was one of the aspects of his work that L absolutely adored. To be in a different place, different surroundings, with different people. Everything changed, except for him. He was the only constant in a life of variables. And he loved it. The change always refreshed him . . . made him feel alive, and new. Almost as if he, too, were a variable that could be changed with all others, even though he knew that wasn't the case. He could change his appearance, and even his demeanor well enough; he would never be able to change what those dynamics kept hidden.

He heard her voice stream into his trance, loud and demanding. He looked over to see her in the middle of an animated conversation, speaking in a language he didn't know. And he knew a variety of them, but this one escaped him for the most part. He could catch familiar words every so often, so perhaps Greek?

He found himself wondering again at her nationality. She spoke English perfectly as if it were her first language, just as it was for him, but hearing her now . . . this seemed to fit. The guttural sounds and sing-song quality of her words sounded natural, not the least bit strained or forced. But earlier, he'd caught was sounded like just a hint of an English accent. An occurrence that had not repeated itself since then.

It was impossible to tell. She could be American, English, Greek . . . he would never be able to tell the difference. Another question to ask on his rapidly growing list.

She was staring at him now, he realized. Apparently he'd been staring back, but he didn't recall making the effort to do so. Now he did, his eyes narrowing just slightly at the diluted color of hers in return. Didn't this irritating creature know better than to engage him in something as childish as a staring contest? Didn't she know he was undefeated?

She gave in, giving him a quick wink before turning her eyes downward. Discarding her phone, she rose and made her way to collapse in the sofa across from him.

"I see you've deprived some unsuspecting individual of their phone."

"I found it." Really, why would he lie about something like that? But it just fell from his lips with ease, laying on the carpet in testament to his enjoyment of lying to someone's face, and watching them believe it.

She gave a short chuckle, crossing her legs and smoothing her dress. "I think I'm getting used to your insistence on insulting my intelligence with your little tales."

L took a sip of his coffee, holding the cup just above its saucer with a pinky turned upward. "If I thought so little of your intelligence, I wouldn't be here. But you already knew that." A gulp this time. "Hypocrite."

She splayed her hands in front of her, a sign of surrender he didn't bother to look up for. "Guilty, as charged. Are you going to arrest me now, detective?"

L set cup and saucer down gently, moving to add a few more cubes of sugar. "Not now. Soon, I hope." Not soon enough.

L wasn't sure what it was about this girl that really brought the worst out of him. He wasn't usually so willing to insult someone for no reason at all, at least not to their face. But this one had a knack for chewing on his nerves, like a little mouse gnawing through electrical wire. Not something that you went so far as to hate, but definitely a nuisance that you want to get rid of as soon as it's convenient.

Initially, he thought it was simply because he wasn't used to her. Not her brand of humor, not the way she demanded things of him and expected him to obey, and certainly not her lack of respect for his privacy, or her own.

But now he could, without a doubt, feel the beginnings of a black ball of aversion forming in his stomach. It was a rare feeling as L wasn't prone to dislike people. He usually didn't care about them one way or the other – exposure was fleeting and there was no sense in wasting time on someone you'd never see again.

But then there were just some people in this world that even Jesus couldn't love, and he suspected that she qualified. She was crass, she was haughty, and she didn't know when to shut her mouth. She hadn't shown the tiniest bit of shame or modesty when she'd undressed in front of him, or when she'd undressed _him_.

The fact that she might be a modern version of Mary Magdalene, the whore of antiquity, beyond the help of Jesus Christ?

. . .

Seventy-three percent. Not that he'd seen any sure evidence that testified to her ill-repute; it was just intuition mixed with her display of character. He might not know a great deal about women, but he knew they didn't just undress in front of men, or make crude comments about their equipment, or give them the basest look of hunger he'd ever seen while searching them.

Was _that_ the mechanism he'd been wondering about earlier? Would men really give up their careers, their families . . . even their freedom just for a tumble in-between the sheets with her? Didn't they know she was a dime a dozen, and the others could be bought for much less? L almost laughed. If they were too stupid to realize that she was no different from a much cheaper high-class call-girl, then the law is better off without their ilk anyway.

Would he sleep with her?

Did he really just think that? L considered it seriously for a moment, staring at his pale reflection in the coffee he held.

Sure he would - if she'd been born without the ability to speak, or if he was fresh from his recent _lobotomy_.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

L blinked once to clear his thoughts, and turned his eyes from his coffee to her face. "They aren't worth even half that."

"I wonder who the poor soul is who you think so little of." She gave a small smile, and that look of knowing in her gaze had L wondering if she really _did_ know?

He didn't see how she could, but then again she'd proven to be very perceptive so far. It was on the tip of his tongue to add another scathing remark, just to gauge her reaction, but he decided against it. He had to work with this female, and it would be illogical to make it any harder than it already was.

Zoë stood up and walked passed him to the back of the aircraft, out of his line of sight. L looked out the window again to check their status, and could see they would probably be landing soon. Abandoning his drink for a moment, he stepped down from his seat and pocketed both phones before sitting back down properly. Balancing on his feet during a jet landing wasn't the wisest idea while trying to finish his coffee, which he promptly replaced to his lap.

"We'll be on the ground in a few minutes." She spoke from behind his seat, standing over him.

"Thank you." L curled his fingers around the handle, bringing cup and saucer towards him in a slow ascent. He'd gotten just over halfway to his mouth when something dropped from above, passed his line of sight, and landed right in the center of his cup with a _plunk_. A stray drop or two of coffee bounced from the collective, coming to rest right on his white cheek.

Just as L grabbed his spoon to fish the object out, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and then warm breath tickling his ear through the black veil of his hair. He froze at the contact, sliding onyx marbles across white glass to peer at her from the side.

"Keep the change, detective."

* * *

No hate mail please from those of you educated enough to know the truth about Mary Magdalene. Yes, I know she wasn't a prostitute. Mistranslation FTW.


	8. Arcadia

* * *

**Arcadia**

* * *

**October 18****th****, 2000**

_Niagara Falls, Ontario_

* * *

_3:34 am_.

L peered in between the seats at the digital clock set in the dash of their current vehicle. The streets were more or less deserted, and at times the only light around was what emitted from the SUV's headlights. Streetlights only seemed to pop up when they passed by one of those 'suburbanite communities' that littered the quiet path to their destination.

Returning his eyes to the passenger side backseat window, L pressed at the little black button to lower the window the rest of the way to its limit. Pleasant sixty-degree wind increased in its assault on his face, whipping his hair about in some kind of animated afro. Pivoting his crouched position on the seat, he turned and brought his head as close to the opening as he could tolerate without the wind stealing his breath.

L loved the cold. There was something decidedly tranquil about that frosty chill . . . that freezing numbness. It never failed to cast its veil of solitude over its victims, who remained very much alive while everything else around shriveled and died.

He suspected that's why most considered Winter a time for love, romance, and cuddling. When all is dead, it creates a sense of loneliness that human beings, who are very social animals, seek to quell. More children are conceived in the Winter season than any other season – most in the month of December in the United States.

He could never understand why people fought that feeling – he found it very comforting, that quiet still of life. While all others slept, L remained awake to revel in the barren darkness of Winter's night.

The vehicle slowed, and L curled his lengthy fingers over the window slit in anticipation of a turn. Their driver was much more aggressive than Watari in his maneuvering, and L found himself almost losing his balance more than once.

He'd been introduced to Mitch as soon as they'd vacated the plane. When he'd first noticed the man, waiting patiently for his employer to land, L hadn't pegged him for a 'Mitch'. A Brutal, maybe, or a Basher. Not something as eloquent and meek as a Mitchell.

He hadn't looked so big from the plane, but once they'd approached, L could see exactly why she'd chosen him for her driver. The man was _enormous_, towering over L's own almost 6 feet with at least 7 additional inches. And that was if he didn't slouch, which he did now that they were no longer keeping up appearances.

If that weren't enough, he was just as wide as he was tall. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his muscled arms looked as though they would explode from his shirt at any moment if the guy even so much as pointed at something with too much strength. His legs were no different, if the straining of his trouser material was any indication.

But oddly enough, the man's handshake had been surprisingly gentle, and his smile an easy one. He looked as though he could pick L up and snap him in two with very little effort, but he certainly didn't act that way. Although, L had no doubt that demeanor would change in a flash should someone attempt some manner of idiocy, as clearly evidenced by the handle of the sidearm he'd noticed holstered under the man's right arm.

L wondered if this man had been chosen specifically for this, or if he was her regular driver. He already knew they were familiar with one another . . . he'd caught that raised eyebrow Mitch had given Zoë when she'd introduced the tiny man before her as her new personal assistant. Apparently, 'personal assistant' meant something else, and whatever it was, L was not the usual.

In any case, it made no real difference either way. Keeping the brute around for protection from him, if that's what his presence meant, was a waste of effort. Did she really think he was stupid enough to try some kind of tomfoolery? He didn't come off as a particularly violent or perverted man, as far as he knew, so why the need for a bodyguard?

L didn't like it, for two reasons. Reason number one – she was taking no chances with him, no matter how non-threatening he might seem. She was careful . . . too careful, and that meant problems for him if he was going to try and wiggle his way into her trust.

Reason number two – he _just_ didn't like it. He didn't like the guy seeing his face, and he sure as hell didn't like that he, **L**, was being kept an eye on as if he were some kind of . . . deviant. If anyone should have protection in this situation, it was _him,_ not her! He wasn't the fugitive . . . she was. Yet here she was, with this armed man of stone, while he'd been forced to leave his own assistant behind.

He hoped they were close to their destination. The coffee he'd had earlier had already zipped through his system, and the thought of taking care of business on the side of the road did not make him all warm and fuzzy inside.

He wanted this stuff all over his face _off_ - it was suffocating him and it was not a part of his damn job.

He wanted out of these clothes – the lack of boxer shorts felt uncomfortable, and the trouser material was starting to irritate his sensitive foreskin.

And most of all, he wanted out of this car and away from these strange people and he wanted his phone and he wanted something sweet and he wanted to shower and they were talking too loud and he wanted them to please shut_ up_ even though he should be paying attention to what they're saying and he wanted . . .

_Slow down._ L brought his head in away from the window, and let out a quiet sigh. He couldn't let this rape of his sense of security wreak havoc on his sanity, not if he wanted to get this done and over with in a timely fashion.

Looking up, he happened to catch Zoë studying him in the rear view mirror. She was quiet now, all of her attention focused on what felt like a peeling away of obsidian layers to get at what was hidden behind the too big eyes. L smiled to himself – _try all you want, you'll never get anywhere_.

"Really?"

It took a moment for L to realize the question was directed at him. "I didn't say anything."

Her eyes smiled at him mischievously. "You don't have to."

Nonsense. She was bluffing, trying to deceive him into giving something away. Clever tactic, but that's all it was. She might be adept at this game, but he was _born_ for it. The sooner she realized that and gave up, the better off she'd be.

L feigned the tiniest bit of surprise in his eyes before lowering them away from her gaze, giving her the impression that she was spot on. Too much, and it would have been obvious; not enough, and she wouldn't have caught it. He hoped she caught it, but he didn't chance a second visual meeting to find out.

Since their journey from the airport, to wherever they were now, Zoë hadn't strung together more than three words for him outside necessity. What she did have to say to him had been curt, and strictly business. While L thought it plausible that the presence of Mitch was the reason for that, he also took into consideration that she had understood his 'penny' comment, and had liked it none too much. That tickled him pink . . . he could give her his worse, and they still wouldn't be even for the hard time she'd given him so far.

Not that he didn't 'get' it . . . he got it fine, and knew that he had to remain professional. But that didn't mean he couldn't have a little fun, did it?

Peeping his fingers in his right pocket, L seized a piece of hard butterscotch and popped the treat in his mouth. He hadn't _needed_ to stop for anything, but he'd bothered her about it anyway just to see if she would give in. L shared a secret smile with himself – he'd spent almost 30 minutes wandering around the isles of the shop, taking his sweet time for no reason at all other than to annoy her. She'd said "something fruity", and he'd gotten her grapefruit; only because they didn't have anything in avocado. He'd refused to use the phone she'd given him, and opted to steal one from some stranger instead.

But none of it had seemed to bother her. She'd showed no signs of impatience when he'd returned to the car, and she'd drank that grapefruit stuff just as if it had been apple. Who the hell likes grapefruit anyway?

Her reaction to the phone had been no less disappointing, with her casual comment about its origins. L had begun to wonder how far he would have to go to get a reaction out of this female, and then came the silent treatment. Good. He wasn't in the mood to hear her filthy jokes, or her comments on him as if she were his personal narrator.

A hand shot into the air in front of his face, palm up. L examined it for a moment, noting the perfect nails which were most likely as false as the rest of her, before finding her eyes in the rear view again. He pushed the candy to one side of his mouth with his tongue.

"Last one." He gave her his most pleasant version of monotone, not a shred of apology to be found.

"You ate all my candy?"

L made a show of playing with the sweet drop in his mouth, bouncing it around as if it were a hockey puck. "I purchased it, so that would make it mine."

"With my money."

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

Zoë snorted at him. "Myth."

"I have the receipt." He was finished, dismissing her by returning to his vigil through the window.

"Which only proves that you paid for it with someone else's money."

L gave a little sigh, just loud enough for her to hear. She was so baitable, and he was probably having way too much fun. He slid his eyes back over to her before following with his head. "You're right, I'm sorry." He opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out at her, offering the half dissolved candy to her on a wet pillow. As expected, she made a little scrunching gesture with her nose before withdrawing her hand.

"We're here anyway."

L responded by steadying the candy in between his back teeth and biting down hard enough to hear. He could afford to finish it prematurely – he still had some left in his pocket.

They had turned into one of the gated communities that made up most of the area, this one being very obviously of upper-middle class status. _Not_ at all what he had expected, and so very odd in its normalcy. But really, it was brilliant. Who would ever think to look for someone like them in such a place, when typically they hid out in hotel rooms or gaudy monstrosities for homes. _This_ was perfect . . . a needle in a haystack.

L took in the surroundings as they screened passed his window. Flawless St. Augustine lawns, kept up by their paid gardeners no doubt, bathed in the manufactured white of plentiful streetlights. He got the impression that those lawns were a means of competition for these watered-down family men, which made no sense since they apparently paid the _same_ people to work them. L couldn't figure out the reasoning for that tidbit of American life.

Brick, sandstone, and even marble-like homes – most two story – that seemed to share similar layouts and floor plans. Each with at least one car, shiny and new, sitting on their paved driveways. The homes were spaced a good ways apart, as opposed to their lower class counterparts. Still, it was _Suburbia_ through and through.

He heard an occasional dog bark from somewhere in the distance, but besides the watch animals it was relatively quiet. It _was_ passed 4 in the morning, L had to remind himself, and most of these residents probably didn't bother with work until 8 or 9 am.

He wondered for a moment just how many of these stay-at-home mothers were screwing other men while their husbands went off to slave for their comfortable lives. Wasn't that the sort of thing that happened here among such confined, conniving creatures?

"This is our stop."

L waited a moment after the vehicle stilled before pushing the door open and planting his feet on concrete. As an afterthought, he turned to lean back into the car to get his sneakers.

Their destination was sandstone, two-storied, and L-shaped. The store-bought lawn here was just as green as all the others, with little plots of brightly colored flowers and bushes surrounding the immense trees. Aside from the entrance for the driveway, the property was bordered by a privacy wall all the way around. This too was stone, with Greek-key designs adorning the top, and at least ten-feet tall. And just as all the others, there was a car in the driveway – a black Japanese made Land Cruiser.

Ridiculous. Why would someone own a Land Cruiser when they had no land to cruise? Another subtlety of this life that he would probably never comprehend.

"It's not mine."

L turned from his scrutiny of the vehicle to see Zoë approaching him. He gave a little nod of acknowledgement before following her up towards the entrance. After a moment of fumbling keys, the dark wooden door granted them entrance into an even darker foyer. Tiled marble, black, felt cool and smooth to his bare feet, a welcome change from the concrete outside.

"This is . . . ordinary enough. Is this where you live?" L asked, carefully setting his shoes in a corner before padding down the entrance hall.

"Not exactly. When I vanish, sometimes I'll come here." He heard her throw keys onto a wall table just beyond the door, the _clanging_ sound filling the quiet still of night.

"How does that work, exactly? Surely the neighbors would notice . . . a house vacant most of the time?"

"There is a young woman that I pay to live here. When I need to be here, I send her off on vacation wherever she likes to go. We look a like, and she keeps to herself . . . no one is the wiser when we switch. It's kind of like Home Exchange, if you know what that is."

"Clever."

And it was. Such a tactic kept her safely under the radar of suspicious activity, whether it was from the IRS or the FBI. Nothing in her name, he assumed, and a look-a-like that would extinguish any doubts as to her innocence in anything.

Dim off-white filled the living area, illuminating brushed white stone furniture and dark cherry woods floors. Sage green and white mixed nicely in the upholstery, some of it outlined with black lacquer framing. There was a fireplace cattycorner in the northwest area of the room – an elaborate thing of fine wood and tan-colored brick. On its half-circle stoop sat two child-size statues of cherubs, each holding their stone harps with butterflies on their shoulders.

L had to admit – he liked it. It was decidedly elegant in its simplicity – wide open spaces and soft, calming colors. Nothing as impersonal as a hotel room, the décor was very much down-to-earth and comforting.

"There's a guestroom upstairs with a private bathroom for your personal use. With the exception of the master, which belongs to the full-time occupant, and my own guestroom, there are other rooms upstairs for your work if you like. Or, there is a study down here." She pointed down a hallway.

"I'd like to bathe." He felt dirty from travel, and the clothes had worn out their welcome. Two hours ago. She made a come hither motion with her hand and moved towards the staircase opposite of the entrance. L followed, examining the upstairs décor closely as they went into each room. He also happened to notice that the back of her dress was now all creased and wrinkled.

"I told her to set up one of these rooms, but it looks like she didn't bother. What's your favorite color?"

L cocked his head at the request. "Green."

"I've heard geniuses pick green. Lucky you, since that one's connected to a bathroom." She made a pit-stop at one of the hall closets, grabbing pale blue sheets and a flowery down comforter. Shoving the fabric into his hands, which he had to hastily remove from his pockets, she acquired two pillows before moving on. Egyptian cotton, L noted with satisfaction as he tested the material of the sheets between his fingers.

His delegated quarters were at the end of a hallway filled with several other doors that he wanted to investigate, something L decided he would do later.

"I don't have any clothing for you, but there are robes in the bathroom. Your things should be here tomorrow."

"I'm sure I'll manage." Damnit, no he wouldn't. How the hell did he keep ending up with no clothes around this woman?

He observed for a minute or so as she made the bed, that L felt like he might just sleep on, before making his way to the adjoining bathroom. First order of business - empty his bladder!

The bathtub, which looked as though it was made to fit an 800 pound person, filled a lot faster than he'd expected. Rummaging through the countless cabinets lining the walls, L found a new toothbrush, a new bar of soap, towels, and a black terry robe. Prep-time of positioning the objects in a convenient manner, and tearing at the clothing hanging off his slender body – less than two minutes.

Armed with what smelled like homemade pumpkin pie soap, he practically jumped into the hot water in his over eagerness to get his face clean. Once that was finished, he took a moment to lay back and let the heat of the water sink into his bones. Feeling the trials and stress of the day evaporate away in steam, L felt a million times better already. The sweet and spice of the soap only accentuated the relaxation of his tightly coiled spirit.

Positive that he'd locked the door, he let his eyelids droop slowly until they covered the holes in his eyes completely, blocking out all light. All was silent but for the gentle _sloshing_ sound of his occasional movements in the water. L could feel his water-heavy hair sticking to his forehead, the nape of neck, and around his ears. He hated the _wet rat_ look it always gave him, but not enough to cut it off. Now would be as good a time as any to wash it, he decided. Lathering the soap in his hands, L worked the rich substance through the black tresses plastered to his cranium.

Tedious work, his hair washing, and sometimes L thought his head was way too big with all this hair. Or maybe it was just that it was _so_ thick. If he didn't wash it thoroughly enough, it would cling together in groups, the unattractive strands hanging about his head like a gang of dead tarantulas. That was often the case when he worked, more concerned with percentages and reasoning than the oily spiders on his head. But since he really didn't have much work to do – with no notes, no laptop, or even any clothing – L took the extra time to cleanse the stuff properly.

The water was beginning to cool, steam no longer dancing from its surface, and he supposed it was time to finish washing and be done. Because really, L was just so excited about getting into that robe and prancing about like some kind of porn star in-between shoots.


	9. Writing On The Wall

**Writing On The Wall**

* * *

**October 18th, 2000**

_Early Morning_

_Unknown Location_

* * *

Pale Columbian blue eyes surveyed the conference room, sweeping across the spacious room in smooth movements that stopped every so often to note a certain face before moving on. Five others sat spread out along the oval conference table, each a representative of their specialized squad.

Closest to her was Drake, one of two twins. A young man with strawberry blond curls and striking green eyes, he ruled over Surveillance/Recon.

Francis, whose chair was currently empty, was his older twin brother. He shared the same attractive features – large eyes, hard-set jaw, bronze skin – but his golden blond hair fell in silken waterfalls instead of spirals. Sharp steel blue eyes replaced the green. His team was in charge of Intelligence/Counterintelligence.

The last occupant on that side of the table was Dakota. The youngest member of the team, he was a nervous, wiry boy with copper hair and silver eyes. Of a keen intelligence hidden behind his shy demeanor, Dakota worked as resident Technology Expert/Data Thief.

On the opposite side sat three others. A father/daughter team and Case.

Case was a bit older than the others, fast approaching his thirties. A dark-haired beast with brown eyes, short hair, and 3-day old growth lining his jaw, Case was a bit rough around the edges. He was an Infiltrator of sorts – a Confidence Man that could sell water to whales.

Next to him waited Ren, a middle-aged Japanese Diplomat. Except for two shocks of silver streaking through ink black, his features remained largely untouched by age. An Ambassador, Ren served as a Triple Agent associated with both Japan and the United States.

The last, sitting in the far corner, was Ren's daughter Sula. A young Asian girl of unparalleled beauty, with long, slender limbs and close cropped hair, she had a somewhat boyish appearance that men found irresistible. Her specialty was weapons and demolitions. An ex-assassin, she was often used to accompany certain high-level personnel.

Noting the vacant chair next to Drake, impatient eyes navigated down to the elegant platinum watch affixed to Merrie Kenwood's wrist. Merrie, better known as 'Wedy' was the delegated authority over these hoodlums. But that didn't detract from her own accomplishments – she was a renowned thief in her own right, with her ability to swipe almost any physical object, and she occasionally served as a Go-To girl when needed.

"Should we start?" Wedy asked, unsure whether or not Francis would even make an appearance.

"_Francis_ is on his way_._" Drake's voice called out to Wedy, followed by a few snickers at the comical intonation of the latecomer's name.

"That guy's always late. How does he afford it?" Dakota asked, referring to the fifteen-thousand dollar a minute late fee those not on time were required to pay. Shrugs and 'I don't knows' filled the room.

"Because I'm a lot wealthier than your sorry ass, Dakota." Francis spoke from his spot on the door threshold before moving to occupy the empty seat.

"Alright, everyone's here. Let's begin." Wedy waited just a moment for quiet to settle before starting. "For the most part, things are going according to plan, and moving right on schedule. However, there have been a few minor changes that have been noted on the new instructions being handed to you." A pile was being passed around the table, each occupant finding the mini disk with their 'name' on it, and then passing the pile along. Wedy waited until everyone had their designated disks before continuing, making sure she had everyone's attention.

"There has been a removal of a few of your targets, and there are a few additions. Namely, Eraldo Coil is to be protected as of now."

"Wait. Which one?" Dakota piped in anxiously.

"The current one, who I suspect you'll probably meet soon enough." Wedy gave the boy a wink before continuing. "Now, all resources previously delegated to Coil will go to **L**."

"Well it's about fucking time. That guy is harder to keep a handle on than Mercury."

Drake looked to his brother. "Are you afraid of him?"

Francis narrowed his eyes at his sibling in return. "No. Shut up."

"Wait a minute now," Ren held up his hand for silence before everyone converged with questions. "Who gave the order, Wedy?"

She smiled seriously. "Charles Sands." Wedy noted that her answer seemed to satisfy the vet.

"So what does Sands want us to do, exactly? Are we still supposed to just keep **L** busy, or will we be allowed to take him head on?" Case looked around at the others to see that his question had been weighing on other minds besides his own.

"Keeping his attention is all we will ever be able to do, so there is no real difference. His tango of strategic grace we cannot match, no matter how skilled at the dance we are." Sula pushed her chair back with one foot against the desk, her arms crossed over her chest as if she were bored.

"She's right." Wedy interjected before an argument ensued. No one wanted to believe that one man could stay several steps ahead of an entire organization, but Sula was never one to disregard truth. "Sands has something else in store for him, and has decided to handle it personally. In the mean time, you will work with Coil to keep **L** on his toes."

"This Coil business . . . I'm not a fan." Dakota tossed his disk onto the table, his forehead crumpled in worry.

"I don't think anyone is. But that's what is being requested of us. So take it or leave it." Ren, a man fiercely loyal to Sands, didn't much care for it either, but it was either accept or decline.

"You are, of course, free to not participate if you so choose." Wedy wasn't sure why she even bothered – no one was going to back out.

"What about Zoë?"

Wedy smiled at Francis. He had a thing for Zoë, and had no idea that _everybody_ knew it. "She's already taken Coil into hiding with her. I'll rendezvous with them in a few weeks in Paris, if you'd like to come."

"I'm there." He gave his brother Drake, who had his own crush on Wedy, a victorious smile.

"Alright folks. Go over your new instructions and let's get this thing rolling. We are now officially under a time limit, and everything needs to be perfect. Dismissed."

* * *

**October 18****th****, 2000**

_Late Evening_

_Niagara Falls, Ontario_

* * *

They settled at the table, sharing an evening breakfast of English muffins and coffee. L had his clothes, some of which were finally secured onto his body, and his notes for the case which he shared with her. The laptop he now had wasn't his own, but a new machine she'd had picked up for him. Surprisingly, copies of almost all the information he had on her were already on the hard drive.

His things had arrived earlier that day, and without incident. He'd been hoping that Watari wouldn't bug anything – why bother when the old man already knew where he was – and he was glad to hear that everything had passed with flying colors. No sense in resetting her trust meter every chance he got, especially when there was no call for it.

Last night, or rather early this morning, he'd planned on taking his own tour about the house to learn the layout instead of wasting time in bed. But she'd been waiting for him when he'd opened that bathroom door, apparently with the intention of making it absolutely clear that she didn't want him slinking about during the night like some kind of prowler while she slept. L hadn't made an issue of it, and had simply crawled into bed – under her watch – with the goal of waiting until she fell asleep.

He'd fallen right to sleep not five minutes after his head had hit that pillow.

And not only had he slept . . . he'd slept _wonderfully_. It was those stupid sheets, so deliciously soft against his naked skin; and that damn comfortable mattress, that contoured to every nook and cranny of his spine, that had done him in. One minute he'd been staring at the moonlit ceiling playing connect the dots; the next he'd awoken to bright light, a knock at the locked door, and a hard-on.

The only unusual part of that scenario had been the knock at the door, which indicated his personals had arrived.

He'd spent a half hour going through everything and then putting it all away. Four days worth of clothing – check. Cash – check. Credit Cards, passports, and identification for chosen aliases – check. A prototype of an Apple portable music player that doubled as an external hard drive – check. His _special_ Cinnamon toothpaste – check. A small black box filled with his personal trinkets that he took everywhere – check.

Satisfied that everything was present, he'd dressed and joined Zoë in the breakfast nook.

L tapped away at his laptop for a few more minutes before breaking the silence.

"Is there anything sweet to eat?"

She paused for a moment, lowering the sheet of paper currently in her hand. "Yes, I think so." She replied before pushing her chair back and moving from his sight. She returned shortly, placing a large box in front of him next to his computer. L stared down at the object, realizing it was a frozen box-to-oven strawberry cobbler. With two fingers, he pushed it across the table to where she sat back down.

"That'll be fine, thank you." He returned to the information on his screen.

This time, Zoë stared at the box before sliding her gaze upward to glare at the top of his head over her reading glasses.

"Are you disabled in some way I don't know about?" She asked innocently.

"No." He responded without bothering to look at her.

"Maybe your reading comprehension is poor then, or you have trouble following directions?"

"No on both counts."

She gave the box a strong push back to him. "Then you are just as capable of reading those instructions as I am."

L stopped tapping, and leaned over the side of his screen to meet her gaze across the table.

"You don't cook?"

"No. But even if I did, _why_ would I make that for you?"

"It's your house." He pointed out.

"And there's food already prepared to eat here."

"But none of it's sweet."

She shrugged. "Beggars can't be choosers."

L cocked his head to one side. "I'm a beggar now?"

"You're begging me to cook that pie, aren't you?"

L narrowed his eyes at her before he gave the box another two finger push, right onto the floor. "No." Satisfied with the sound of box meeting floor, L returned to his work.

Zoë removed her glasses, and reached over to shut his laptop. "Alright. I think this is a good time for a pow-wow, detective."

"Not this again." The blacks of his eyes rolled up and over, taking his gaze from her to nothing somewhere beside him. They'd already went through the rules one time today. No visitors. No going into each other's personal quarters. No leaving without an escort. The rest L only remembered as an indistinct '_blah, blah, blah_,' sound.

"And look at me when I'm speaking to you. I'm not your wife, or your girlfriend, or your mother. I don't cook, I don't clean, I don't do laundry. I don't lay your clothes out for you, or make you shower. Understand? You need to be completely autonomous."

L scratched at his hair. "I'm an adult, Zoë."

"Then act like it!" She sighed, softening her voice. "Look, there is a lovely young woman that comes here on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She does the laundry, she cleans the house, and she runs the errands. If you want something special to eat, put it on her list on the counter and she'll make it for you and store it away. She will do whatever you need her to do. You can even _fuck_ her if you feel the need."

L raised an eyebrow at that, but remained quiet.

"Making sure she gets your dirty clothes, or whatever it is you ask for is _your_ responsibility, not mine. I'm here to work, not play _stay-at-home-mommy_. If that is unacceptable," she pointed in the general direction of the front door. "Lots of luck, detective. Got it?"

L poked out his bottom lip in a pout, pushing at it with his finger. "But Zoë, it's only Monday."

She was angrily gathering her paperwork now, preparing to leave. "Then I suggest you preheat that oven."

"Where are we going?"

She paused, glaring at him. "_I'm_ going to the study. I can't work here with your incessant whining about every little thing."

He watched as she walked past him, and out of his line of sight. L smiled a little. She'd put up with his constant annoyance of her longer than he'd expected.


	10. Friendly Fire

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**Tunes in profile:  
**

_American Beauty_

_

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_

**Friendly Fire**

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**May 20****th****, 2001**

_New York_

* * *

The glow of bright orange illuminated stark against the darkened backdrop of the low-lit lounge area. Merrie savored the first drag of her cigarette, exhaling a cloud of grey smoke into the air above her. She watched it swirl and roll about, escaping into the atmosphere only to dissipate into nothing. Just as the heavy rain pelting the building's roof did the same – falling from above to splatter into non-existence.

"Another?"

Wedy turned her eyes to the young waitress, and gave her a kind smile. The girl couldn't have been over eighteen, but her provocative clothing and jaded face spoke of an experience far beyond her years. One of the transients, no doubt, who flocked to this city with wistful dreams in their heads, and stars in their eyes. A shame, it was, that so many young girls ended up in establishments like this – soiled by the necessity and desperation of their circumstances.

They really should rename this place the City of Broken Dreams.

"Yes, thank you." She handed her empty glass to the girl, who returned her smile automatically before she sauntered off to retrieve another.

As she waited, Wedy glanced around at the other tables that littered the large room. Several that had been previously taken by lonely gentlemen were now vacant, their occupants having decided to pay the outrageous fee required to take their pretty waitress to one of the back rooms. The few who had been eying her hopefully had apparently given up and done the same.

Men could really be sordid creatures sometimes. How many of them, she wondered, had a wife or love-interest waiting to see them? Too many, Wedy knew. Too many of them who would come to a place like this for one reason or another; spend their money, have their fun, and then go home to their loving companions. Sick bastards probably didn't even bother to bathe afterwards, but instead found a twisted sense of triumph in coupling with their wives with another woman's sex still all over their body.

"Brandy." The waitress set the fresh glass down on the heavy wood. Leaning in, she spoke softly. "Are you waiting for someone, or . . ."

The girl let the rest of her sentence trail off, relying on the forged lust in her eyes to convey her meaning. Really, Wedy wondered what had taken the girl so long to ask. They may not frequent as often as the men, but females were known to come to places like this in search of the same guilty pleasures their male counterparts sought. Not that Wedy was looking for that pleasure, but she deserved the same service as the men, didn't she?

"I'm waiting for someone. But thank you." The girl's honey-eyed gaze cooled immediately, her expression looking almost relieved. She offered another false smile before leaving her pretty, blonde patron alone again.

Wedy lit another cigarette, and took a long pull before tossing back almost half the contents of her glass. The liquid burn that traveled down her throat and into her belly soothed her, allowing Wedy to relax just a bit. She flicked her cigarette absentmindedly against the glass ashtray, swirled the remaining dark alcohol around in the glass, and played with the heels she'd kicked off under the table. If he was on time, it would be a few more minutes. If he was early . . .

She heard the door to the main entrance open, and looked over her shoulder to see that he was, in fact, early. The English and their obsessive punctuality.

"Still nasty out there?" Wedy asked as her companion settled into the armchair across the table.

"Dreadful." he replied as he worked his way out of his overcoat. The waitress returned immediately, querying the elderly gentleman for his preference. "Port, please madam." The girl took off, leaving them to wait in silence until she returned a moment later with his drink.

"You look well." Watari commented casually before taking a drink of the dark-orange liqueur wine.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose." Wedy ducked her cigarette out, and pushed the ashtray to one side the table with a fingernail.

Watari nodded in agreement. "Indeed. An unpleasant state of affairs, this." He gave a heavy sigh, taking another swallow of his port.

Wedy watched, noting that the action seemed to age him ten years almost instantly. Still, his eyes were bright and intelligent, and Wedy had no doubt that he could move almost as quick as she if he needed to. Aside from the age evident in the wrinkles of his skin, and the grey of his hair, this assistant of L's seemed unmarred by the gnarling of time.

"That's the way these things tend to happen.." Wedy drained the last half of her second glass, and set it to the side. "At any rate, let's get down to business, if you please." She didn't want to rehash through the outcome that led them all to where they were now . . . she just wanted to get things settled and move on.

"As you say." Watari, too, drained his glass and raised a hand to call their waitress. After a brief exchange, the girl signaled for both of them to follow her to one of the back rooms reserved for patrons in need of privacy.

"You've come here before?" He asked her as they both settled on opposite sides of an expensive antique desk. The room was dim-lit and quiet, set apart from the other activities going on in other areas of the establishment.

"A few times."

He made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat before turning to pull a packet of documents from his overcoat draped over the back of the armchair. Pulling papers from the envelope, he slid half of them across the desktop towards her.

"This is a copy of your original contract with your former employer. A few changes have been made," Watari held up a hand when she looked as though she would interrupt him. "_All_ of which I think you will be agreeable to. Please look it over before you object."

Wedy gazed at him a moment longer before turning her eyes down to the agreement she currently fingered through. She hoped he was right, for her sake. If she didn't agree to this, her freedom would become suddenly very short-lived.

"I wonder why it is. . ." she turned the page, noting the few changes highlighted in yellow. ". . . that _I_ have been allowed to escape this unscathed, when others were not so fortunate?" She turned another page and paused, sliding her eyes up to the older gentleman sitting across from her in question.

"You're the only one left, correct?"

Wedy gave him an admonishing glare. "That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant." He gave a smile in an attempt to soften his sharp words. "I'm not privy to that information, and those who do know are keeping mum."

Maybe he didn't have all the information, but Wedy was sure he knew something. As if reading where her thoughts were going, he spoke again quietly.

"It's not our business, Miss Kenwood." His voice was dismissive, telling her that he would entertain no more queries on the subject. "Now, are the new terms to your liking?"

She let it go, and turned to the last page, her eyes immediately going to the monetary value at the bottom of the page. "This is triple the amount in my original contract."

Watari nodded. "That's to compensate for your termination as a free agent."

Meaning she would work for L, and only L. Wedy had known he would demand something like that, but she hadn't expected him to buy it outright. Apparently, he wanted to be sure of her loyalty. Not that she could fault the boy – money talks, and bullshit walks. Still, she was just a little insulted.

"Little shit." she murmured before reaching across for the pen Watari offered her silently. Merrie Kenwood scribbled her name across the line at the bottom of the page, right below a neatly written 'L' penned in the same ink. With pen on top, she slid the paperwork back across to Watari, who returned it to its envelope before giving her the other half – her own copy.

"Very good." He returned the documents to his coat pocket, and produced a mobile phone in turn. "This is how I'll keep in contact with you. Please keep it with you at all times." He placed the phone on top of her contract. Pulling a small card from the same pocket, he set it next to the phone. "That's the code you'll need every time you contact me. Please memorize it."

Wedy stared at the items. Now why did this all feel _so_ familiar? Giving a little smile, she leaned over to retrieve her hand purse from the carpet.

"This . . ." she pulled a sealed, letter-sized envelope from her purse and handed it to him in return. ". . . is for him."

Watari turned it over in his hands, failing to find any sort of writing or identification on it. "What is it?"

Wedy shrugged. "I don't know. As you said, it's not our business. I've only been instructed to turn it over at this time."

He gave a nod, securing it inside his coat pocket with everything else. "I'll give it to him." He stood, removing his coat from the chair and shrugging it on. "I appreciate your cooperation in this matter, and I look forward to working with you."

Wedy made no move to leave, deciding it best to wait several minutes after he'd left. "Likewise. Please relay my 'little shit' comment to our favorite detective, won't you?" she replied sarcastically.

Watari smiled. "Of course. Good evening."

Wedy listened to him go, staring down at the belongings on the desk and lighting another cigarette. A minute later, the waitress returned with another glass of brandy.

"Courtesy of the gentleman who just left. You've got the room for as long as you like."

"Thank you." Wedy pushed the phone in circles with a fingernail, staring at the string of letters and numbers imprinted on the card next to it. After the several minutes it took to commit it to memory, Wedy struck a fire on her lighter and touched one tip of the card to the flame. She watched it curl, and then turn to ash before tossing what was left into the ashtray.

Wedy wondered whose idea it had been to pass her over to his employ. She felt almost like some kind of turncoat – being in a position that she knew for a fact should have belonged to someone else.

A too forceful flick of her cigarette caused ash to scatter across the wooden desktop. Picking up the ashtray, Wedy leaned forward and blew the mess onto the carpet.

The end result of this entire mess made little sense, and his coming to her rescue made even less. She hated this not-knowing shit. If he was so willing to pick and choose who he wanted to surrender to the wolves, and who he wanted to keep for his own, then why the fuck was she the only one here? Why wasn't she under lock and key, where she supposedly belonged?

She thought she'd had everything figured out . . . thought she had understood why her services were changing hands. Then she'd found out who her new employer _really_ was, and that little tidbit had given her more questions than answers.

Wedy let out a puff of air between pursed lips, crammed her cigarette into the ashtray, and quit her chair. She could hear a particularly vocal gentleman getting his money's worth in the room above her, and that was her cue to leave.

Not like she had anywhere pressing to be . . . not when she suddenly found herself forced into an early retirement, more or less. She'd done what had been requested of her, and now she was in that dreaded 'limbo' phase with nothing to do. How long would it last? Would he even call on her at all? Or would he simply keep her in reserve – on the payroll and hopefully out of trouble? Pfft. Didn't he know that people like her could be bored for only so long before getting themselves into trouble?

Wedy gave her new belongings another hard glance before pocketing them into her own coat and making her way towards the back exit of the building. Walking through the corridor that led to her destination, Wedy passed by a few occupied rooms. The melancholic cries seeping through closed doors gave her a sobering reminder that her circumstances could certainly be much worse.

It could have just as easily been _her_ behind one of these doors wiping some stranger's release off her thighs – her eyes empty, her body used and cold. Freedom often had such a price, unfortunately. One Wedy was glad her new benefactor didn't require her to pay.

Out the door and into the harsh elements, Wedy looked up into dark grey clouds with a sense of reprieve from her self-imposed execution. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all, and she should concentrate on her own situation. L was no saint, but he was certainly preferable to some of the other options out there looking to capitalize on someone of her talents. And he sure as hell trumped a prison cell for the rest of her life.

No, she didn't really dislike the boy. She just wasn't crazy about being an underling. Thanks to him, her reputation for loyalty was shot. Her former employer gets proper fucked, and she just happens to start working for L all of a sudden? No . . . doesn't look good at all. Who would believe that she'd been loyal to the very end? That she'd been forced into this through no fault of her own?

No one.

Wedy gave a look over her shoulder as she made her way down the empty street. Silently, she prayed that there were no others with her same sense of loyalty looking to do her in for her treachery.


	11. Plastic Promises

**Tunes in Profile:**

_Una Musica Brutal

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**Plastic Promises**

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**October 19th, 2000**

* * *

"Now that we've settled in, I think we should get on with discussing the finer details of our arrangement."

L looked up at her from his position on the sofa. "You're ready to answer my questions, then?"

"Some of them. If you would accompany me back to the study, please."

Pivoting to set his cup down on the end table before stepping down to the floor, he followed Zoë down a darkened corridor to one corner of the house. The library, or study, of a home was traditionally a place for the gentleman of the house to relax and conduct his business. And this one played that role to the 'T'. The room was crammed from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books, journals, notebooks, and papers of every description that were in no particular order within the great wooden shelves. The handsome windows that looked out onto a well-tended garden were fitted with heavy wooden shutters that remain closed against prying eyes. During the day, the bright white of daylight allowed through their cracks afforded the only light in the room; but night brought the soft gold of lamplight that didn't quite make it to the four corners of the large area.

Zoë settled behind the heavy oak desk as L took one of the armchairs opposite of her, stepping into the expensive piece of furniture and crouching. Propping her feet onto the desktop, Zoë leaned back in her chair to regard him with a casual expression.

"Down to business, then. There is the matter of your confession. I trust everything was in order?" he asked.

"There were a few inconsistencies." She leaned to the side to pull the document from one of the drawers, and L couldn't help but notice the way her clothing fit against her body. One would think that seeing the girl without clothing would dissipate any curiosity, but L found that the incident in the hotel room a few days ago had only served to heighten his fascination with her. He'd been thinking about that little display she'd given him – probably a little more often than was necessary.

L gave his head a mental shake, trying to clear the unexpected thoughts creeping into his mind. It wasn't as if he'd never seen females without clothing before. But having the real thing, living and breathing, in one's presence was _very_ different than pictures or television. There was warmth, and soft skin, and a throaty voice sitting not eight feet in front of him. He could speak to her. He could reach out and touch her, if he wanted.

And he could smell her. Something unknown to him, an indescribable scent that he could only call _female,_ that he happened to pick up on every so often. Mixed with the flavors of her hygiene products – pumpkin and spice, it seemed – it was a very distinct smell that ignited sparks of something he couldn't name, quick and strong, deep within him. Something uncomfortable and alien. This . . . awareness of her, if that's what it could be called, seemed to shimmer in the air around him. So forceful, he wondered if Zoë sensed it?

". . . are you listening to me, Coil?"

"Yes. You said there were a few inconsistencies, but nothing to haggle over."

She gave him an odd look, as if she weren't completely convinced, before tossing an envelope to slide across the desktop. L didn't move for it, leaving it where it rested in front of him.

"Aren't you going to look it over?"

L drummed bony fingers on his kneecaps. "You signed it, correct?" Zoë nodded once. "Then I trust you." he lied. _And so we're off_, he thought.

"How endearing." she commented dryly.

L chose to ignore her sarcasm. "As a matter of fact, I'd like to suggest that you and I make a pact before our business together proceeds any further."

Zoë raised an elegant eyebrow at that. "What pact would that be?"

L pushed at his bottom lip with a forefinger, his eyes turned upward in mock thought. "Let us agree that we will not lie to each other during the course of our association together. We may each keep our own personal secrets, if we don't wish to discuss them. Everyone is entitled to privacy, after all. But we will not tell lies to each other. Agreed?"

She regarded him quietly for several moments, and L was almost afraid that he'd pushed a little too much . . . that she could see right through him.

"Something easy enough to agree to, in words. But who is to say that either of us will live up to the bargain?"

"An excellent question. One I have no good answer for." L leaned forward for affect, stepping from his chair to kneel on the desktop in front of her. "I suppose it comes down to trust, does it not?"

To her credit, Zoë held her own under his penetrating gaze. Her lips twisted into a mischievous smile. "It's said that I'm ruthless, and a murderess. You will trust the likes of me?"

"We all have our little quirks, don't we? You know my reputation, so it's not as if I'm any better."

L edged closer, searching dull eyes for some weakness he could take advantage of. She stared back at him, before giving a short laugh. "Very well. I will tell no lies." Her eyes gave him sincerity, but L knew better than to take such a thing at face value. She was no novice when it came to these games.

"Nor will I." There was that fragrance again, and L found himself unable to comprehend how he noticed it. It was subtle, but there nonetheless. Like some kind of live thing, it moved through his nose and into his brain to deliberately wreak havoc on his sanity. Something he was beginning to suspect she did on purpose with some sort of Voodoo.

"It's ironic, isn't it? An agreement of honesty between an alleged murderer and a man who hides the truth about himself?"

"I'm satisfied with it. I suspect it will make things a little easier on the both of us, if we adhere."

She gave him an unexpected smile, one that showed small, white teeth. "Let me be the first to break in our 'pact' and say that when this is finished, you will have me to do with as you like."

"Yes," he said. "I will." By _any_ means necessary, L added silently. He was willing to do _whatever_ it took to put an end to her high-jinks.

"Now then," she gave his current position on the desktop less than a foot away a quick glance before continuing. "I believe you have some questions."

"I have many of them. But since we've agreed to be honest with one another, I think it's best you know now, before we go any further, that I find you attractive, Zoë."

There was a long silence. She appeared taken aback, but not to the extent he'd expected. Removing her feet from the desk to sit properly, she leaned closer to him. "I already knew that." she spoke in a low voice, her face so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. "Although I didn't expect you to come out and say it."

L wasn't sure what to say. This wasn't the response he had predicted. He'd wanted to unsettle her, at the very least. Something that was proving to be almost impossible. "How did you know?"

She looked amused by this turn of events. "I think you already know the answer to that. Your detective's intuition is a thing of beauty, so I'm sure you've quite picked up on certain things."

Yes, he had. And he was impressed with her ability to see that. L was starting to think that maybe it wasn't going to be so easy to fool this one.

"You're a woman who can be bought."

"In a manner of speaking. I'm in trade, detective. Meaning I will trade whatever one wants from me for what _I_ want."

"Sex included?"

"Yep. Apparently, there's something quite alluring about me." She gave him a look as if to say, _not to toot my own horn or anything._ "So, it's become somewhat my business to look for that weakness and use it to my advantage, even in those like you who are so adept at hiding emotional response."

Now would be a very good time to take the loss on this one, and _back-off_. But at the moment, L didn't find that idea so appealing, for several reasons. Instead he angled his head to the side. "You consider it a weakness?"

"It gives me control over another human being." She moved forward, bringing them only a few inches apart. She was certainly not afraid to engage him in his own game of invading one's personal space. "What would you call it?"

Weakness was the appropriate word. L had no doubt about that – not when having her so close did funny things to his senses, like flinging them down to the floor and stomping on them. It was ridiculous that something so simple could be so effective against him, and do so against his will at that.

Honestly, it pissed him off just a little. She was _cheating_. She had weapons in her arsenal that he had no access to. And that look in her eye now told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would have no compunctions about using them against him.

"Are you threatening me?" he asked curiously.

"Hmmm," she made a curious noise in the back of her throat. "Care to find out?"

"No." Self-preservation won out, and L scrambled backward to his position on the chair, eying her warily.

She chuckled, false and meant to intimidate him. "Are you afraid of me?"

"Of course not." _Absolutely_. Who would be stupid enough to _not_ be cautious of her? "But such sordid things do not interest me. Please respect that."

She held up her hands in surrender. "As you wish. But I'll tell you, I fully expected someone like you to use someone's emotions against them."

L's eyes narrowed at her. "Something L would do, I'm sure, but that's not my style. My moral compass isn't that skewed." He lied easily, putting on a convincing show of being insulted. "So let's move on to my questions now."

Zoë shrugged. "Fire away."

"How do you move money?" L shot the first one off immediately.

She pushed back on her chair, resuming her casual manner of sitting. "Same as you do, I imagine. With bank accounts."

"Offshore?"

"Some of them. But the rest are right in the states. Keep things small, and they tend to go overlooked."

L really wished she wouldn't sit like that, with her hands intertwined on top of her head. The action tightened the material around her breasts, and he could see that she wasn't wearing anything underneath the top. And apparently, it was cold in here. With effort, he brought his attention back up to her face.

"Jonathon Bales." he blurted out the name in an attempt to keep things moving so he could concentrate on something other than the pink showing through the flimsy white of her shirt.

She looked as though she were mulling over the name before responding. "Special Agent, wasn't he?"

"He was, until he worked on your case. He's been missing since then."

Zoë gave a heavy sigh. "He's not dead, if that's what you're accusing me of. He's doing quite well, actually. Very ambitious young man."

L scoffed at her. "I find it hard to believe that a man, who was apparently quite respectable, would just vanish and not attempt to at least contact his family if he were alive."

She shrugged. "Said he was bored with them, which is probably why he came to work for me, along with several others of his kind. But believe what you like, detective. I'm just giving you the facts you're asking for."

L reached up to massage the bridge of his nose, indicating his agitation with the situation. But he said nothing in response to that. "Tell me how it is you manage to convince these men to give up their careers, abandon their families, and follow you?" She didn't respond immediately; her lips curling upward in a slow, deviant smile. L had no problem taking her meaning. "Nonsense. No woman is worth that, no matter how . . . tempting."

"Tempting?" She chuckled at him. "You really are a forward little thing, aren't you?"

Black eyes continued to stare at her in non-amusement. "Answer the question, please."

"I can't give you an answer that would apply to all of them. For some, it's the money. For others, it's the excitement. For him, it was the life. As a matter of fact, _he_ caught _me_. Did you know that?"

"He tracked you down?" L looked at her, disbelieving.

"Not exactly. I suppose you could call it Serendipity. We'd met before – once during a raid. Fortunately, he didn't know who I was then . . . just a bystander to him. But we happened to meet again through a mutual associate, he put two and two together, and he approached me with an offer for my freedom that I couldn't refuse. Like I said, very ambitious."

"How did he identify you?"

Zoë gave him a reproving expression. "I can't tell you that. Not now."

"And the offer?"

"I trained him personally . . . and all that _that_ entails."

L disapproved, giving her his narrow-eyed disgusted face. "I see." Not that he gave a damn about social propriety or what society thought, but he did find her rather cavalier manner a little offensive. As if it were something to be proud of – taking advantage of a married man who had young children – she spoke of it as if it were just another notch under her belt. And she called him forward!?

He might be young, but he wasn't a product of his generation. Watari had instilled in L his own aged values, which included distaste for basing one's self with strangers . . . especially for personal gain. He wasn't above saying questionable things in his efforts to disarm a suspect – they were only words, after all; but L liked to think himself above the utilization of her depraved methods. If he couldn't obtain what he wanted from someone without getting physical, then he wasn't good enough to pursue whatever it was in the first damn place.

_By any means necessary_. L recalled his earlier declaration, and wondered if maybe he should recant. Could he really sit here and say, _I won't do that? _He tried to imagine himself in a situation that left him no other options, but he found that he still couldn't call it one way or the other. If presented with circumstances that would force him to choose between his determination to succeed, and his very limited set of 'morals', L couldn't decide which he would choose. As a man who held truth as one of his highest ideals, he _had_ to concede it possible that his ethics might fly right out the window in the face of winning . . . regardless of what he thought to himself now.

Only a fool would rule out possibilities because of an emotional response.

But then there was the fact that he now knew for certain what kind of game she played at. And clearly, she was extremely skilled at it. Even if he had to take such a . . . squalid route, would he achieve any degree of success? Could he really cut in, mid-dance, when he didn't even recognize the song, or know the steps? He knew next to nothing about sex aside from the mechanics of the anatomy involved, and he knew even less about seduction. Zoë, on the other hand, could probably compete in the Fornication Olympics.

L wondered if he was really reckless enough to step into the ring with Ali in a pair of kid gloves . . . blindfolded.

L mentally ridiculed himself. His intellectual ability could trump _anything_ of hers any day of the week, and that included her audacious ways and her stupid smell. Besides, this one slept in the Devil's bed and L would never dream of letting such a beast touch him.

Well, he might dream. But that was _all_.

The high-pitched ringing of her phone grounded him, and he returned in time to see her giving him a hateful glare.

"Excuse me, although it wasn't as if you were listening to me anyway."

He'd been listening. Something about people like them being above social convention and a hill of beans. But since it hadn't been anything of use to him, it had ended up as that _blah, blah, blah_ sound that most of what she said became.

But phone calls were a different matter, and he watched her in interest. _Yes. No. No. When? Where is he?_ From the sour look that twisted her pretty features, it looked like bad news.

"No, leave her where she is. I'll handle it personally." She paused, listening to the other party while sliding her eyes towards him. "Well, he's got another thing coming. Hopefully, he likes surprises." L didn't like the smile she gave him the least little bit.

Zoë snapped her phone closed, tossed it onto the desktop, and addressed him wearing that same smile. "It seems our friend _L_ has gotten his grimy little fingers into one of my associates."

"Who?" That seemed like the appropriate first question to ask, and he did so with not so much as a twitch.

"You'll see. We're going to Tokyo." She was getting up. Now?

L followed her lead, snatching his confession off the desk and stepping from his chair gracefully. "What are you going to do?"

She stepped around the desk and stopped less than a foot in front of him. She was _pissed_ – he could see the spark of fury in those usually very unresponsive eyes of hers. And if he didn't know any better, L would swear that it was directed at _him_. He almost felt the urge to recoil backward when she leaned into him, her lips curled back in a ferocious snarl.

"I'm going to show you, my dear little detective, what happens to people who like to _fuck _me without my permission."

* * *

**October 21st, 2000**

* * *

"What makes you think he's still here?"

Zoë cut the engine and pulled the brake with a sharp movement. "He was here as of two hours ago. Even if he's gone, I can still get into his office." She leaned over to open the glove compartment in front of L's folded legs. Using the key she pulled from the engine to unlock it, she removed the small handgun she'd stashed there.

"Firearms are illegal in Japan, Zoë."

L regarded her cagily as she released the magazine, gave one end a quick glance, and then slid it back home with a _scrape_ and a _click_. He wasn't crazy about the idea of her having a firearm when he did not. Not that he'd ever shot anyone, but L would not hesitate to put a bullet through her brain in self-defense if he had to. He was a crack shot.

"Ever shot anyone?" She asked, voicing his thoughts.

"No."

She tapped a fingernail against the black metal, turning the gun this way and that as if inspecting it for the first time. "Interesting. Let's go."

Opening the door, L stepped out from his crouch in the seat and looked around the darkened parking garage, surveying the layout thoroughly. There were only a few other vehicles dotting the level they were on, and there was no one around. Too white light illuminated the area in sections, shining eerily on the slick concrete paving. The place had that underground, stale smell, and it was chilly.

He knew exactly where they were, and who they were here to see. A man, Ashko, that he'd sent someone to 'press' almost a week ago owned this building; the headquarters of a front company he used to hide his illegal activities. Not that he'd really gotten anything of use from the middle-aged businessman – just a bit of confirmation for speculation he'd already gambled on anyway. But, there'd been a meeting that he had mentioned, and L had counted on getting information about it from him at a later date.

That might not happen now, depending on what exactly Zoë was going to do.

He'd considered warning the man – giving him a heads up that his status as an informant had been leaked – but he'd decided against the idea for two reasons. The first was simple . . . it would appear suspect for anyone paying close enough attention. The second, and the most important, was that he valued his life. If Ashko knew she was coming, there would be no telling what manner of welcoming party he would have for her, if any at all. And since L just happened to be with her, he didn't want to put himself in any situation that was more dangerous than it had to be.

Whatever happened to the man tonight was going to have to be too damn bad, because L was not jeopardizing his own life any more than he had to.

Turning back around, L fixed his eyes back on Zoë. He didn't want to let her out of his sight any more than was necessary – not when she was armed. Wide, alert eyes watched as she walked around the car to join his side, and L made it a point to stay _behind_ her at all times. Being shot in the back – with no warning – did not appeal to him.

And oddly, L got the feeling that she knew exactly why the pale boy hovered at her back cautiously. In fact, he was almost sure of it. As they walked towards the entrance, Zoë worked at securing the weapon in the waistband of her black suit-pants, at the small of her back, and left her white top tucked in. As if she were giving him the exact same chance to grab the gun and fire as she had.

Or maybe it was just to keep his attention on the threat, and off those incredibly nice-looking curves right below her tiny waist. L shoved his hands in his pockets, and fidgeted with the phones in each. It wasn't working, and _what_ a time to be distracted. She'd said he wasn't hard-up when they'd first met, but now that was beginning to look less and less accurate every hour.

Swiping a key card in a sharp downward stroke, Zoë frowned at the buzz given in response. "That's odd. The security system looks to be active."

"Maybe not. It's late at night, Zoë. A lot of companies do that as an extra measure."

She punched in a five-digit code, and he heard the sharp sound of the locking mechanism sliding free. Turning the lever, she pushed the solid steel door open, and they were in.


	12. Dead Men Tell No Lies

**Tunes in Profile:**

_High Rise

* * *

_

**Dead Men Tell No Lies

* * *

  
**

Longest. Ride. Ever. Standing in a tiny four-walled compartment with an armed crazy woman? Really, what _was _he thinking?

And why was this elevator so slow? Who would cut corners on the elevators in such a lavish, sixty-seven floor building? Idiots.

Zoë remained quiet, tapping her nails against the reflective metal she currently leaned against impatiently. She hadn't said a total of two words to him since they'd stepped foot in this place . . . something he was beginning to get used to when they were in the field.

L stared openly at the girl opposite of him. It was strange – what he saw and what he knew about her just didn't match up. In her business casual dress pants, plain white blouse, and black heels, she looked as though she could be one of those 9 – 5 women returning to the office to retrieve something. A secretary maybe, or a personal assistant . . . not a pistol-carrying psychopath.

He, on the other hand, was quite out of place. Blue jeans, a thin white sweater, and beat-up tennis shoes were all big no-no's in the white-collared world. Nevermind his bed-hair and terrible posture, which clashed with Zoë's straight stance and severe chignon. What an unusual pair they made, and one to surely be questioned should they run into anyone.

Out of habit, L pulled one of the phones from his pocket and checked the display. "Do you have service in here?"

Zoë turned to him from her sojourn into the steel of the elevator doors, removed the clamshell secured in the clip at her waist and flipped it open. "No."

The elevator stopped – top floor. Zoë went first, stepping onto dark green marble as if she owned the place. She didn't look to the side, or behind her . . . she just stared straight ahead as if she belonged here. Clearly, she knew exactly where she was going, and L wondered how many times she'd been here.

Coming to a halt in front of a set of double doors, both of them stood there listening quietly. Standing opposite of her, L raised black holes to her in question, indicating he heard nothing. Zoë gave a slight shake of her head, mirroring his observation.

L looked down at one of the levers in-between them, and casually pressed two fingers against it in a downward motion. Not like he expected it to open – he just wanted to _see._ It was good business to test _all_ available options.

So when the metal gave way under his touch, and the door _clicked_ open, L's eyes shot upwards towards Zoë, whose expression showed the shock that L's didn't. She gave him a nod, telling him to push it open. He let her go first, and when he was satisfied that it was safe, L followed; silently closing the door behind him.

"Someone beat you to it." L commented indifferently, taking in the disheveled state of the darkened corner-office. Clearly, whoever had been here had been looking for something. Pictures had been pulled from the walls, miscellaneous objects and books that belonged on the built-in shelving were tossed all over the carpet, and the heavy wooden desk set in one end of the room had been trashed.

Carefully stepping around the obstacles, L made his way to the desk and joined Zoë, who was already assessing the damage there.

"Check for his hard drive." She commanded quietly, rummaging through the desk drawers.

L obeyed, knowing her curt behavior stemmed from their delicate situation and limited time. Finding the computer sitting to one side of the desk, L knelt down and worked at popping one side panel free.

"It's already gone." Turning the tower around, he picked up an orphaned USB wire with a two-fingered grasp. "Looks like there might have been an external drive taken as well." L abandoned the machine, rising back to his feet to watch Zoë. She still worked at going through the drawers, looking for anything overlooked. After a moment more of tossing things around angrily, she straightened.

"Anything of value is gone. I wonder if Ashko took off with it, or if it's been stolen." Leaning on the desktop, she began cycling through recorded numbers on his land line.

"What about this?" L asked over his shoulder, hobbling past her towards a black-metal safe set in the back wall.

"Waste of time," he heard her growl behind him. "I can guarantee that the only man who has the combination will not be offering it up."

L opened his mouth to reply when something out of place caught his eye. Turning to his right, he saw what looked like a shoe peeping from behind a cherry wood privacy screen. He couldn't be sure since the single lamp that lit the room didn't reach here, but . . .

"I don't think it's personal choice that keeps him quiet."

He heard her noise-making pause, and then felt her gaze on his back. Sensing her sudden proximity at his side, L glared at her out of the corners of his eyes. "Zoë doesn't have to wonder anymore."

"If that's all you have to say when there's a dead man laying right in front of you, then maybe it's _you_ I should wonder about." She returned his glare before moving to one side of the body.

The man's dead. What difference did it make what he said? Did she prefer that he gave a eulogy?

L watched her kneel down, her hands hovering over the human shell in hesitation. With that grimace on her face, and the sudden paling of her coloring, it looked as if the idea of touching him disturbed her. Still, tiny hands grabbed at the man's side and pulled. And pulled. He was deadweight, and Zoë couldn't turn him onto his back.

"Help me."

L stared down dispassionately at her from his stooped position at the man's feet. "That's not my job."

"Your _job_," she removed her hands from the corpse and sat back on her haunches, not bothering to look up at him. "Is to do exactly as you're told. If you don't assist me, I'll leave you here."

L looked ahead to the safe he'd only made it halfway towards. "Zoë can't outrun me."

"She can when there's a bullet in your leg."

_You're arguing. In a strange man's office. When said man is laying deceased on the floor_. L returned his eyes to the top her head, annoyed. He didn't want to linger here any longer than necessary, and she was interfering with that desire.

"_Please_."

It was an angry whisper – one she knew she had to provide if she wanted his assistance. Maybe he could get just a little more out of her.

"You'll repay the favor – in any way that I ask?"

"Yes, _yes_. Now hurry up and come on." She was leaning over him again, grabbing fistfuls of black slacks and white dress shirt. Giving a heavy sigh and pulling his hands from his pockets, L moved to stand behind her. This was ridiculous. For all he knew – _she_ could be responsible for the corpse in front of them. And he would not put the resulting act passed this woman.

Positioning his legs on either side of her kneeling form, L bent over her and secured his fingers tightly around her wrists. He'd help, but he wasn't touching the thing if he didn't have to. Besides, he'd rather touch her than some dead person any old day of the week.

And standing over her like this, he was able to see right down her shirt. Today was apparently an undergarments day. Pity.

"Pull." He felt her tense at his order, the tendons beneath his hands straining and jumping. Lending her the strength of his legs, they managed to get the corpse on its side before Zoë shuffled backward awkwardly on her knees. L compensated – taking a step backward with her. With his blood running from all the excitement, and his position of standing with her in-between his legs, he needed the back of her head in his groin like he needed a brick to the face.

When she'd given enough distance between herself and the cadaver being held precariously on its side, L pulled again. When it was clear that the body would make it the rest of the way on its own, L physically detached himself from the rather morbid situation and took several steps backward to observe from a distance. There was something both disturbing and incredibly appealing about watching her with the corpse that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

_That's just the adrenaline currently surging through your system. Nothing to worry about._ L shoved his hands back in his pockets, attempting to quell the jumpy effects of that hormone, and hoped that little voice was right.

Zoë, evidently over whatever issue she had with physical contact, made quick work of searching through the dead man's pockets. L noted purple discoloration around the man's neck – he'd been strangled with what looked like a thick piece of cording, or rope.

"Any ideas?"

"He was scheduled to meet with Sands in a few days, so I can only assume this has something to do with that."

Yes, he'd known that much. "And who were you going to send?"

Zoë pulled a black leather wallet from one pant pocket and rifled through its contents without looking up. "What makes you think I wasn't going to go myself?" she asked quietly.

"Why would you?"

She paused in her search, and looked up to him. "Why wouldn't I? My career is over, and this man was a long-time associate of mine. Why hide? Besides, I think he may have already suspected who I was."

"If that's true," L replied softly, choosing his words carefully. "Then that's undoubtedly information he would have given to L."

A ghost of a smile played upon full lips. "You think I did this."

"It's a possibility I can't ignore." Which was the truth. He didn't know what to think at this point, but he wasn't ready to eliminate any options yet.

"So it is." She resumed her investigation, pulling an obscene amount of Yen from the man's wallet and stuffing it in her own pocket.

Really, what kind of sick, twisted person robs a dead man? L chose to keep his opinion of that to himself, and instead opted to turn around and stare out of the large window behind him. The neon glow of technology emanated from the tightly packed civilization below, the scurrying of countless cars along the streets belying the ungodly hour in which they found themselves. Creatures of the night, on the hunt for anything to cure the boredom of their hum-drum lives.

L wondered vaguely how many others were standing in front of windows just like this, looking down at the dazzle of lights that was Tokyo's nightlife? And what of those at ground level – did they look up and wonder just who was staring down at them?

L turned abruptly, pinning his gaze on the privacy screen a few feet behind him. Why hadn't he seen it before? That's why it had caught his eye – it's odd positioning.

"I think the body has been moved."

Zoë returned the wallet to the pocket she'd found it in, and pushed herself to her feet. "He may have ended up here during a struggle."

"That's unlikely, given the location of this screen. Who puts one of these right next to a window like this? There's just enough room between the window and the screen for a handful of people to stand. Someone concerned about privacy would have put it flush against the window, or in a corner somewhere. I suspect both the body and the screen have been moved. And there's only . . ."

L froze at where that thought was going, and hoped like hell he was wrong. But just in case, he thought it prudent to grab Zoë by the wrist and strafe left, his back still turned towards the window that was suddenly very dangerous.

"Wha–"

She didn't even finish the first word of her sentence when both of them were startled by what sounded like a pebble hitting the window they were just standing in front of. Hair-line cracks formed around the indention made by a bullet from a high-powered rifle.

"Bulletproof." L inched as close as he safely could against the wall, towards the window, to examine the mark. "From above."

Zoë turned around, wide-eyed. "How did you know?"

"Intuition." His fingers tightened around her wrist, telling her he was in no mood for resistance as he pulled her behind him. "We're leaving." L made a straight shot towards the doors with Zoë in toe, ignoring the sounds of two more attempts at breaking through the glass. As a last minute thought before opening the door, L jerked her forward and forced her to turn around with firm hands at her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he half whispered as he confiscated the weapon still secured against the small of her back. "But I'm likely a better shot than you."

"You better be."

Holding the small-arm at his side in a solid grip, pointing downward, L eased the door open. Satisfied with silence, he quickly darted his head out for a visual check. With a short nod to Zoë, he made his way into the still deserted corridor first. With long-legged strides, L lead them towards the elevator in a hurried walk that forced Zoë to jog if she wanted to keep up.

To the relief of both of them, the doors slid open immediately.

"Afraid?" L asked once they started their descent, his eyes noting the almost feral look in those that stared back at him.

"I'd be lying if I said no."

With that almost indiscernible shaking in her voice, he believed her. Looking up, L surveyed the design of the lift. He could see no removable access hatch; if anyone was waiting for them below, they were going to be in real trouble.

"So would I." He spoke more to himself than her, his throat suddenly very dry.

With a several more floors to go, Zoë moved to pin herself against the control panel, and out of sight from anyone looking in. L emulated, standing only a few inches in front of her. No sooner had he pushed himself back against her when he felt her hand slide into his left pocket, making him tense instinctively.

"Nice pull, detective."

"Just in case Zoë really did plan on leaving me." He explained as a key with a remote attached was extracted from the denim.

"Hadn't planned on it. Something that might change if you steal from me again." She spoke into his back, her breath warm through the fabric of his shirt.

"I saved your life. I'd say we're even."

He heard a click of her tongue. "The glass was bulletproof, remember?"

"So it was." L turned his head, giving her a sidelong glare over his shoulder. "Maybe next time I'll leave that little detail to chance."

"Maybe you should," she replied conversationally. "It would certainly serve your purpose better, I think."

"You're wrong." L straightened a bit, returning his gaze forward. "I want you in a cell, not a coffin." He felt her push herself into the corner, even though she could go no farther.

"What's the difference?"

L knew it was a rhetorical question, and a good thing too, because he had no answer for it. And why should he? It wasn't _his_ problem.

Opting for silence, he occupied himself with toggling the locking mechanism of the pistol he clutched in his hand. He hated the unfamiliar weight . . . the way it unbalanced him. He'd never been a fan of firearms, but they had been one of the first things he'd learned his way around years ago. Unfortunately, in his line of work, they were often a necessity. As careful as he and Watari were, there was always that off-chance of assassination . . . of someone looking to rid the world of 'L'.

The lift came to a stop, and he felt Zoë tense against his back – readying herself for whatever was about to happen. Brushed metal doors slid open, and they waited quietly for any sign of a malevolent presence outside. Zoë reached up to press the 'Open Door' button, hoping that anyone watching wouldn't notice the prolonged amount of time the doors were open before giving themselves away.

Always a fan of overestimating his opponents, L decided to peek around the corner when he felt their 'grace' period had reached its limit. A halfway intelligent person would have already realized something was off with the timing of the doors anyway.

Everything looked exactly as it had when they first arrived. The same vehicles were still present, and none of them appeared to have been moved. No one was around, and he couldn't hear a thing. Stepping over the threshold, he checked first his right, and then quickly his left.

"Let's go."

L went first, the handgun kept ready at his side. While he wanted more than anything to drop the thing and break into a full-speed run, he managed to keep his pace limited to something between a fast walk, and a jog. Zoë followed closely behind until they reached their vehicle, and then she quickly made her way around to the driver's side.

Stepping into the seat, L dropped the weapon into the center console. He didn't want it anymore, and the windows were bulletproof anyway.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the surrounding area, he kept a lookout for any suspicious persons . . . or anyone at all, for that matter. Still, it looked as though they were completely alone and, L hoped, safe.

"Get out."

He snapped his head around toward Zoë to find her staring at the dash of the vehicle with an odd looking expression he'd never seen before.

"Why?"

She didn't respond immediately, or even spare a moment to look at him. As quick as he'd ever seen her move, she jerked the keys from the ignition, seized the discarded weapon in the console, and opened her door. "Get out of the _goddamned_ car!"

For the time it had taken L to exit the vehicle and look across the roof at her in question, Zoë had tucked the gun back into her waistband, removed her heels, and taken off. All he heard was the padding of her bare feet against the concrete. And she was _fast_ too, for someone with short little legs.

L followed, leaving his door wide open just as she had, and fought to catch up with her. But even with his long legs, she had too much of a head start on him. And having to clutch at the sides of his jeans every so often to keep them on his ass didn't help matters much either.

Only after making it to the top of the exit ramp, and onto the main road, did he meet up with her panting form leaning against a light post. Even he found himself just a little winded, the distance from their car to the road being nothing to sneeze at.

"Explanation." he demanded, once he caught his breath. "A good one."

Her response was nothing more than a wave of her hand, and dismissive sound in the back of her throat. Dropping her heels to the sidewalk, she quickly stepped into them. And as if noticing the curious glances from bystanders walking by for the first time, Zoë jerked her shirt out from her pants and hastily covered the pistol at her back.

"Keep moving." She shot over her shoulder, having already started walking.

"_Zoë_." L was in no mood for this now. His calf muscles were burning something fierce from running uphill, and his nerves really felt like they were thoroughly shot. Still, she continued to ignore him.

* * *

**October 22nd, 2000  
**

_Early Morning

* * *

  
_

They must have walked through Shinjuku West for what seemed like hours. Down this street and that street. Through the darkened park, where Zoë _very_ unexpectedly relieved herself of that stolen Yen by giving it away to some of the homeless there. And finally, they turned into one of the quaint little coffee shops still open. Steering L towards a booth in the back-most corner, they finally sat down for a breather.

"Sit normally. The less attention we get, the better."

Their third shift waitress converged on them immediately, all smiles and sweetness. Something that did not sit well at all with the typhoon currently raging inside L's distraught existence. Holding up one hand, L counted its fingers with his other.

"Sugar. Coffee. Any pastry. In that order. Please."

The girl didn't even hesitate, having already expected the weird behavior from such a weird looking boy. She next turned to Zoë, who ordered the same in some rather lackluster Japanese.

"Your Japanese is atrocious. Maybe I should order for Zoë from now on." L gave her a little grimace to match his scathing words.

"Don't bother. I hate this fucking country, and I doubt I'll return."

"Is that so? Then perhaps I'll have you extradited here once I turn you in." This time, he offered a tiny smile.

Unimpressed, Zoë leaned forward over the table. "You do, and you'll wake up one morning a _eunuch_, if it's the last thing I ever do." She returned his smile, and raised him one wink.

"_Look at that!"_

_"Did that just happen?"_

_"Was it Yak?"_

L turned his attention to the commotion over by the television currently broadcasting a news break, wondering if whatever the other patrons were watching had anything to do with them. Just then, their waitress returned with their orders.

"Pardon me, but do you know what the fuss is about over there?" He asked the girl as she set their cups down, handing out his last smile of the day.

"Oh! I just caught the tail-end of it. Apparently, one of those CEO types was found murdered in his office, and there was a car-bomb set off in the company's parking garage. Very nasty business. Probably one of those street gangs." She gave a cluck of her tongue, clearly disapproving of the violence in Tokyo, and departed to return to the television.

And there it was – the reason for their current circumstances. L tossed the new information around in his head as he tossed several sugar cubes into his coffee, one by one. Giving it a good stir, he finally . . . _finally_ took a slow, long gulp without bothering to blow on it.

"And what gave it away?" He asked his lost-in-thought companion before lowering his cup back to its saucer.

Still staring in her cup, Zoë gave a quiet reply. "The radio controls were flickering when I inserted the key. Whoever's responsible was in a hurry, and they didn't have time to reassemble the dash properly." She shrugged. "I guess we came back a little earlier than they expected."

L took another slurp of his coffee, and broke off a piece of the muffin to shove in his mouth. "So," he swallowed half of the masticated contents. "You knew the car had been rigged, and yet you still managed to find time to save your shoes?"

Raising an eyebrow, Zoë angled her head just a bit. "They're Jimmy Choo."

"_Ahhhhh_, that explains it perfectly. Thank you." Rolling his eyes, L popped another too large chunk of muffin into his wide-open mouth.

"You're damn right it does." Zoë leaned to the side, produced one heel, and slammed it on the table between them. "This is couture. By appointment only." She pointed at the shoe. "You know how much these things cost?"

L stared at the thing, offended, and quickly swallowed. "Please don't put your shoes on the table when I'm eating."

"Please stop shoving shit in your face like a two-year old." She shot back as she returned the shoe to her foot.

L looked down at his almost entirely eaten muffin. He didn't think he was a poor eater. Sure, he talked with food in his mouth sometimes. But if people didn't insist on asking him questions when he was chewing, he wouldn't have to do that. And it's not like he made _that_ big of a mess.

And who was _she_ to say anything about _his_ eating habits anyway? The entire time he'd been with her, he had yet to see her really eat _anything_. At least he didn't starve himself . . . the fact that he _looked_ like he starved himself notwithstanding.

"At least I eat." He reached over, helping himself to her untouched muffin.

"I eat."

"What have you eaten? Grapefruit juice doesn't quality. Neither does a . . . " L cut himself off before it left his mouth, completely baffled as to where such a perverted thought had even come from.

Narrowed eyes fixed upon him. "A what?"

Stuffing a handful of his dinner in his mouth, L shrugged.

"My, but you are the perfect gentleman, aren't you?"

"Hmm? Zoë is assuming things again? Moving on, what happens now?"

"I need to make a few phone calls once we leave here. Then you and I will return to our room for the night, and we'll be off tomorrow since clearly we've overstayed our welcome."

"What about that safe we saw?"

Taking a sip of her own coffee, Zoë thought on the question for a moment. "I was thinking of sending someone after it in the morning, but most likely security will now be an issue . . . if there's even anything still there. It may have already been cleaned out."

"And our would-be assassin?"

She gave a tired sigh before responding in a low voice. "I know as much about that as you do, detective. When I say that I fully expected to encounter a very much alive Ashko, that's the truth. Maybe it's time I put you on L's ass already . . . you might find your answers there."

L's piece of muffin paused halfway through its journey to his mouth. "You think L is responsible?"

"It's a possibility that I can't ignore." She repeated his earlier words, mocking his inexpressive face. "For all I know, _you_ could be behind it. Although, L's involvement would make much more sense. Not only would he have you, World's best detective, out of his way, but he'd have put an end to his suspect to boot. It might be a little out of character for him, but there's a lot at stake now, isn't there?"

L had to admit, it did make sense. But since he knew L wasn't the culprit, and he knew Eraldo Coil wasn't the culprit, since they were both him, he wasn't left with much to go on. Could it really be something she had cooked up? An elaborate scheme to end his life? Or maybe one of her own people, gone renegade?

"What's your plan to find out?"

"I don't have one. What's done is done, and I don't have time to look into it directly."

L opened his mouth to ask about that when the arrival of a young couple sitting at the table right in front of them made any further conversation impossible.

For another half-hour, they sat in silence. L drank his coffee, stared across the table absentmindedly, and listened to the tedious conversation going on between the couple next to them. It wasn't a complete waste, as listening to the dialogue of others in similar situations is what gave him the little social skill he possessed. Aside from Watari, who almost never joined him in his outings, L rarely ever had a companion as he did now.

Truth be told, Zoë wasn't _so_ bad. She was easy on the eyes – maybe a little too easy – and her spoken thoughts didn't consist entirely of the current pop-culture icon, or who was sleeping with who in those annoying soap operas. As a matter of fact, her silence was probably the best thing that had happened to him all day. She didn't feel the need to chatter about useless things, and neither did he. And L found that to be infinitely pleasing to his peace of mind.

He watched as she rubbed her eyes tiredly, and L felt the same way. With the excitement over, hopefully, there was nothing left but overwrought nerves and bodies seeped of energy.

Draining the last of his cup, L moved to reach into his back pocket when Zoë waved him still. Digging into her own pocket, she produced the last of her stolen money, holding it up.

"Courtesy of our friend Ashko, who almost fucked both of us."


	13. Ectomorphic Despair

**Ectomorphic Despair

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**October 22****nd****, 2000

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**

She hated this espionage shit. Really. Wasn't his job? Well, it was her damn job _either_. She belonged in the comfort of her hotel room, dictating her personnel safely from behind closed doors. Isn't that what she paid them for? To put their lives on the line so she didn't have to? Who was stupid enough to sacrifice the brain first, when there were less-important body-parts to forfeit?

Well, Zoë thought, she was. She realized now, coming here to 'question' Ashko on her own had been a foolhardy, hot-headed decision. A purely emotional response to his betrayal that she really couldn't afford to have right now. Time was already getting its greedy little fingers around her neck, and now she wanted to play spy games?

If it had been any other of the Japanese types she had in her 'employ', Zoë would have sent Sula. But sicking Sula on Ashko had not been something she'd wanted to do. The girl, while as efficient as they come, was merciless and unstable – just one of those people wired wrong. She'd have stuck him like a pig, and not thought twice about it. No, Sula was best used to deal with people of her own kind. Those that only understood the threat of bodily harm or death.

Ashko, on the other hand, had not been a violent man by any definition of the word, and sending someone like Sula would have been overkill. Besides, Zoë had possessed an affinity for the man. Classic mid-forties, Japanese 'salary man' who worked his fingers to the bone for his family, and yet there had been something there that had just appealed to her. Not that she knew what _that_ was, however. But she knew what it wasn't.

It hadn't been the sex, that was for damn sure. As was typical for his personality type, his gentle nature had carried over to the bedroom, and Zoë had never been a fan of such a thing. But of course, those 'encounters' were hardly ever about her anyway, so she'd endured and made the best of it; entertaining herself with showing him a few things that apparently his wife didn't believe in.

It hadn't been his looks, either. He'd been attractive enough; but again, run-of-the-mill.

Nevertheless, he'd been a kind, compassionate man that Zoë had liked. He'd doted on her a little, as one would their pretty, young paramour, and he'd often treat her more like a daughter than the woman to whom he was feeding information. And he'd been able to remain that way, given his less than legal behavior, and Zoë liked that. Which is why she'd made the decision to get rid of that cash in the park – he'd get off on that charity shit, and would have appreciated that.

Zoë grimaced. Was it really appropriate to think some of these things about a man whose corpse she'd had to handle just a little while ago? Nevermind that he was that way most likely because of her? Probably not, but what difference did it make? He knew the risks involved in the business of information – risks that applied to _everyone_, no matter how small their part. They were usually the easiest to pick-off anyway.

It had occurred to her, given the last two attempts on her life, that their hotel room might have been compromised. But according to Mitch, who she had left to guard it, there had been no phone calls or fishing attempts. And Zoë found that just a little weird. Whoever they had encountered back as Ashko's office, if it was indeed just one person, had been no amateur. If what L said was true, and the scene had been staged to set-up potential targets, then that was most certainly the work of a professional.

But if that were true, then most likely that person had been tracking her since she arrived. Not an easy thing to do, but not impossible either.

Or maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe the culprit had been watching Ashko and his building instead of her and L. It wasn't uncommon for those skilled enough to spend a little time at the scene to see who would come snooping around. It could have been anyone in there, not her, and the result would have been the same.

Or, maybe L was the target. But who knew his identity besides her?

Zoë had to remind herself, given the current circumstances, that they didn't have to know he was L. They might know him as the new Eraldo Coil. Which, _still,_ didn't make a lot of sense. As far as she was aware, there were only a handful of people who knew that Coil's code had changed hands. And those people were, or should be, limited to her and a few others who were involved in that incident.

Zoë made a mental note to check on one of the former owners on the off-chance that Coil _was_ the target. As for L, she had no choice but to eliminate the possibility that he was the mark entirely. If anyone knew who he was, he would have been dead a long time ago.

_L._

Zoë was beginning to understand just what it was that set him apart from all others . . . that made his rise to the top so swift.

Beneath that boyish exterior, beyond that demeanor of innocence and unwitting concern, and past those deceivingly vacant eyes; Zoë knew without a doubt that a rarely-seen, raw intelligence lurked within.

That the boy currently walking in front of her, leading them through the streets and alleyways with his head down, had managed to defeat one of her puppets came as no surprise.

He was brilliant. Beyond brilliant. His ability to dig into the creative potential of the human mind, to see what no one else sees or chooses not to see, was something unparalleled. Zoë even found herself just a little envious of his knack for seeing things just as they were.

But staring at him now, with his wild shocks of hair and twisted form, she could see that this was no enlightened _Halcyon_ of ancient myth. He was not, as legend had it, a symbol of peace and tranquility. There was no contentment to be had with that phenomenal clarity of his, no comfort of wisdom.

Nope. If Zoë was to compare him to anything, she thought a _Wyvern_ might be appropriate. Something wise, yet treacherous and arcane.

Often mistaken for an adolescent _Dragon_ because of its small size, the Wyvern was an aggressive beast that would attack any who found themselves intruding upon the creature's isolation. Its single greatest advantage being that many tended to underestimate their menacing ability because of their outward appearance. That is, until such a fool found himself beset upon - with sharp claws and one of the deadliest poisons known to man.

Zoë looked again to the oddity leading them to the JR station. No, that wasn't quite right. The Wyvern fit, but not completely. Maybe it would take a multitude of beasts to get him just right.

Considering his half dead appearance, with pallid skin and gaunt features, maybe it was the _Shadow Wyrm_ that would complete his profile. Something mythically intelligent, yet tortured and suffering.

Eternally bound to the living in shadow-form, Shadow Wyrms were said to possess not only an intellect of unknown limits, but a natural aptitude for the dark spells of the Necromancer. Such great power was believed to have brought misfortune upon them, which in turn resulted in their seclusion in the shadows. While capable of malevolence, Wyrms were rather apathetic creatures that preferred to be left to their studies.

Based on what she'd been audience to so far, that seemed to come a little closer to this enigmatic being. Was calamity the reason for his reserved nature? Or was he suffering from Genius Syndrome, and really hadn't the faintest on how to interact with other human beings on a personal level?

"Can I ask you something?" She looked to the object of her intense contemplation crouched next to her on the settee. It had been his idea to ride the train – recommending that they ride for one full circuit before getting off at their destination. It only took an hour or so, he'd said, and anyone still riding by the time they had completed their circle would be suspect.

"Your ability to vocalize appears fine." He didn't look up from the little travel guide, picked off one of those 'free' stands, that he dangled in front of him with one hand. He held it in that strange way – two fingers on its inside pages holding it open, and the other three against its cover.

Zoë let that quip go, finding herself a little weary of their bickering. "Do you have any family?"

She watched the way his large eyes scanned across the page – a small pause being the only indication that he'd paid any attention to her.

"Yes."

That was all he gave, not bothering to fill the awkward silence with any other explanation.

"Brothers? Sisters?" If he wanted her to ask every little thing, then that's what she would do.

"Yes."

"'Yes' what?"

L gave a sigh. "Yes, I have brothers and sisters. Four brothers, five sisters."

Five sisters? That explained a lot, like his sometimes feminine way of handling objects. "Are you close to them?"

Lowering his book, he snapped his eyes towards her direction. "Yes. Why are you asking me this?"

"Why not? I'm only making conversation . . . getting to know you better."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion at her. "For what purpose?"

Zoë wondered if he was serious, or if this was just another way of deterring personal interaction. Well, she wasn't deterred in the slightest.

"We are highly social animals, detective. It's a natural behavior that doesn't require a purpose."

L simply continued to glare at her, his face lacking any real expression. His eyes, Zoë noticed, never moved when he looked at her. While most people tended to switch from one eye to the other when looking at someone else, L's remained stationary . . . as if he wasn't _really_ seeing her.

With the way that marble black almost completely overshadowed his pale grey, Zoë wondered if he saw the physical world differently than others, thus explaining his peculiar way of regarding at things.

"It's congenital."

The unexpected articulation startled Zoë from her internal speculation. "Beg your pardon?"

He closed his book. "You're wondering about my eyes, were you not?"

Really, was she so obvious? Or did he read minds, too? "I was thinking of the affects of whatever it is . . . if you see things differently."

"Hmm. I have excellent vision, if that's what you mean. Although, I suspect I will be entirely blind by the time I'm in my thirties."

"I don't follow."

"Well, consider the reason that an animal's eye will dilate. Usually, it's because of stress – a fight or flight response for the purpose of allowing more light into the eye. I don't know for certain, but I'd say that being in a constant state of dilation will eventually overload my retinas."

She wasn't sure why, but Zoë had the overwhelming urge to laugh at him. "You're just one big walking tragedy, aren't you?" The Tragedy of L, she almost wanted to blurt out.

His head cocked a little in curiosity. "Zoë thinks I'm a tragedy?"

He was mocking her. Sometimes she couldn't tell, but then sometimes she just _knew_. "Actually, I think you're a _travesty_. It's an act, and you're very good at it, detective."

"So I'm acting now?" He was amused by this, Zoë could see that in the angle of his head that reflected the overhead lights in those soot-black spherules.

"That's right. This whole cynical, aloof characterization you have going on is just a charade. I think you play the part so you can appear anguished and mysterious and interesting." She waved her hand at him dismissively, turning to stare through the window behind her. "That dark, sexy, seductive thing gets old, you know."

Honestly, where had any of that come from? What was it about this cat that just incited hateful words out of her? Because he'd said he'd go blind? She hated the pity-party, poor-me victim types, but that wasn't what he'd been aiming for at all. It was just that offhanded, cavalier manner of his that pissed her _off_.

Like back in Ashko's office, when he'd cracked off that awful attempt at a joke about the man's death. Zoë had wanted to smack that devoid expression right off his sickly face in the worst way.

Thinking better of her decision to engage him in dialogue, Zoë turned her attention to the only other passengers on the train with them. A pair of young Japanese girls, who didn't even look old enough to be out past midnight, sat opposite of her location, and a little ways down. She'd noticed earlier that the one closest to her would flick her gaze towards her every so often, and Zoë wondered if the chit was only curious, or if she had . . . another purpose in mind.

She was pretty enough, Zoë supposed, with her long black hair and that creamy skin. But it was her eyes that really caught Zoë's interest – wicked, _knowing_ things that belied the adorable sweetness of her face.

The girl turned, catching Zoë's eyes, and gave a little smile. Zoë returned the smile, doing her best to appear warm and 'welcoming'. She didn't have a habit of 'robbing the cradle' so to speak; nor did she hardly ever do so with another female. But with _this one_ around, Zoë knew there was a dry-spell coming up, and she was already in a bad way about it. With L hanging on to her petticoats twenty-four hours a day, Zoë was now severely limited to who she could associate with or bring around.

But this girl was harmless, and Zoë couldn't help but think of the reaction L would give if she brought her catch back to the hotel. Zoë's smile widened. What _would_ he do? Sit his scrawny ass on that sofa as if nothing were happening in the bedroom behind him? Forbid her?

Join her?

There was really only one way to find out, wasn't there?

"Zoë thinks I'm sexy?"

"What?" She couldn't help but snap crossly at him when he asked the question several moments later, completely ruining her train of thought.

Poking at his lip thoughtfully, L edged a little closer into her personal bubble. "You said I'm sexy and seductive."

She glowered at him, eyeing the shortening space on the bench between them as if to tell him to back off. "That's not what I said."

"That's what I heard."

"You hear what you want to hear."

"You think I'm sexy." He confirmed, a little smile tugging at his lips.

"_No one_ . . . " she paused for effect, leaning in towards him. ". . . would _ever_ use the word 'sexy' to describe you. I promise. Now be quiet." Well, there was probably _someone_ on planet Earth that would, but it sure as shit wasn't her. Why had she even made the comment when she knew he would only spin it anyway?

"Why? You wanted to 'make conversation'."

"And now I want you to be quiet."

"_I _have to be quiet because_ you_ said I'm sexy? I don't follow your logic."

Zoë physically turned herself 180 degrees in her seat so that her back was to him. "I'm done discussing this. Stop pestering me." She tossed over her shoulder.

L re-opened his book, and brought it back up to his face. And thankful for that, Zoë returned to her earlier interest. Now both girls were staring openly at her, and she wondered if they perhaps could understand English, and had picked up on her back and forth with the abortion of normality sitting behind her. Given the hushed, rapid exchange currently happening between the two heads huddled together, Zoë suspected they might have.

She felt the train slow, and looked over her shoulder again. "Is this our stop?"

"Next one." L turned the page, clearly taking her request for peace to heart.

Good. It was clear that he was incapable of having an ordinary conversation, and Zoë was just too exhausted for anything else. Even now, with the duo preparing to get off at this stop, she was just too sleepy to bother engaging the girl. Interacting with L was tiring enough, and she hadn't the strength to bother when the girls walked passed her.

And just as that thought dissipated from her mind, warm hands were at Zoë's shoulders, gently turning her back towards L and one of the exits he sat next to. The female who had made eyes at her was standing over her, and Zoë hoped she didn't look as surprised as she felt when the girl leaned in to whisper a string of throaty Japanese in her ear. Zoë tipped her head just a bit, her eyes lowering to the too-short, loud-colored skirt in front of her.

She couldn't understand what the young woman was saying, and she didn't have to. She knew that closeness . . . those husky, hot words all too well. The girl could have been explaining ant farms, and it wouldn't have made a bit of difference in the surge of raw hunger suddenly creeping up her belly. The wanton little thing pressed herself closer, and Zoë found herself quite intoxicated by the heat of her embrace.

So much so, that she didn't think twice about reaching up to clasp at the exposed skin of the girl's tiny waist, her fingers grazing along the silk that made females so appealing.

The train came to a complete stop, and her playmate drew back slowly with an apologetic smile. Straightening, she offered a slip of paper to Zoë before joining her companion waiting next to L at the exit. Smiling at the both of them, the doors slid open and they were gone.

"What does it say?"

"What?" Zoë's eyes slid from the door just behind him to focus on L, who was staring at her in a queer manner. She had _completely_ forgotten he was even there, or that he existed at all. Looking down, she unfolded the note to find hastily scribbled characters that she couldn't comprehend. "I can't read it."

Leaning over, L snatched the paper from her hand with two fingers and read it. A second later, he was offering it back to her.

"Well," she asked as she took the note back from his fingers. "Tell me."

L refused to look at her – instead he brought his book back to eye level and paid full attention to a page Zoë knew for a fact he'd already read. And with what looked like a blush creeping up his neck, splashing a hint of pink on pale cheeks, she could guess why.

"It's a number."

She might not be able to read it, but Zoë could tell that there were an awful lot of characters on that page to be just a simple phone number. But she thought she'd take advantage of this situation anyway.

"So, you're blushing because of a number?"

"No. It's hot."

Indeed. Zoë scooted closer to him, a smile on her face. "Come now, detective," she purred in her most seductive voice. "Don't be bashful."

This was ridiculous, and Zoë knew it. Was she so hard-up that she'd resort to taunting this boy, who clearly lacked experience in such matters? He'd asked her to keep her distance, and Zoë had every intention of doing so. She hadn't planned on engaging him in that battlefield anyway – she had no reason to do so.

But sometimes circumstances had a funny way of changing things, and that girl's teasing had done her in. Hard-up? That was one way of putting it. A better way would be - if she were a man, she'd have the Hard-_on_ of the Century. Still, she didn't mean any harm . . . she just wanted to have a little fun.

L was doing his best to ignore her, and either he was pretty damn good at it, or he was completely immune to her.

"You can even write it down if you feel uncomfortable with reading it out loud."

Still, he ignored her. And to Zoë, that meant she had to step up her game a little. Intent on only disturbing the object of his current interest, Zoë moved to grab hold of the arm suspended in front of him. But the minute her fingers came into contact with the white cotton of his shirt, L sprang forth from his crouched position on the bench, stepping down so fast that he overcorrected and almost fell forward. Turning around, he regarded her with narrowed, vexed eyes.

"You know, there are a lot of reactions I expect from a man when I touch him." She gave him an admonishing glare. "_That_ not being one of them."

"Then please keep your hands to yourself." L bent down to retrieve the book he'd dropped in his haste to distance himself from his assailant.

Zoë shrugged indifferently, crossing one leg over the other in an unhurried motion. "Tell me what my note says."

"No."

Zoë hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "No?" she ended up going with, lamely.

"Iie. Non. Nyet. Nein. Mhai. Meiyou. Nullus. Please take your pick, although I don't think you will since clearly Zoë has an issue with people telling her 'no'. Something I think she should get used to if we are to spend any more time together, because I will only be able to tolerate so much more of you ordering me around." He paused for breath, shoving one hand into his pocket. "It's not necessary to touch, nor do I appreciate your insistence on me reading that . . . message to you. I think you know full well what the general idea of it is, and you're only trying to humiliate me."

Finished, L gave a frustrated little sigh and waited for her reaction, turning his body slightly to stare her down from the corners of his sockets. He looked as if he couldn't quite decide whether to stay, or bolt out of a moving train.

She didn't have one. She was speechless. Zoë couldn't ever recall L being that verbose, and so _quickly_. Words had practically spilled out of his mouth in a panicky mumble that was so low she could barely hear it. Yet, his demeanor betrayed none of that restlessness. He still wore that dead expression, and he still stood huddled over with one hand in his pocket and the other laying limp at his side.

All but his eyes remain unchanged, and it was in those eyes that she could see how distressed he was. They reminded her of an animal, trapped and wounded. Although instead of dilating, which they could no further, they had constricted just a bit to show that cold, steel grey hidden within. If she hadn't been looking for it, she would have missed it entirely.

"You all right?" she asked, a little nervous herself. Unpredictability was L's middle name, and Zoë had no idea what he was capable of. Maybe it had been unwise to push him so far in the middle of an empty train with not a soul around.

"No. I've been witness to a murder. I've been shot at. I've been left to die in a car explosion so you could have time to bring your shoes. I've been threatened with being castrated. I've had my personality and my physical appearance ridiculed. I've had my suspect openly preying upon young girls right in front of me. And I've been put in a . . . delicate situation that isn't getting any better since you keep harassing and touching me. I'm not made of stone, and I need at least five minutes of peace and quiet before I'll be fine again."

It had started a little over halfway through his tirade, and Zoë had managed to control it. But once he finished, there was nothing she could do but throw her head back and let out the laughter that had been bubbling within. He wasn't dangerous – he was pitiful!

"I'm so . . . dreadfully . . . sorry . . . " Zoë tried to contain her fit, but only succeeded in doubling over with it – her face red with the start of tears in her eyes. Several high-pitched squealing sounds that sounded like gasps for breath made it into the air between them, until finally her hysterics ended in coughing and panting.

It was _hilarious._ Too hilarious for words, in fact. So he got a little turned-on, and decided to lash out at her because he didn't know what to do with himself? Zoë wasn't sure how to respond to such an unusual reaction.

Taking several deep breaths, she managed to regain control over herself and look up at his utterly miserable form. Laughing had apparently _not_ been the thing to do. His earlier flush was now ten times worse, painting almost the entirety of his white face in deep pink, and his lips compressed and thin. She could almost feel sorry for him, poor little thing.

"Why are you overreacting? It's a perfectly normal reaction. Expected, even, at your age." she tried to explain, softening her tone.

"How do you know how old I am?" he demanded, albeit in a softly-spoken manner.

"Relax, detective. I'm only guessing. What are you, 18? 19? These things happen at the most random of times." She splayed her hands out in front of her, as if in surrender. "If I had one, we'd be in the same boat. Luckily, this car isn't crammed full with people, eh?"

L stared, not convinced, but appearing more at ease. She supposed it was better than nothing, since he never laughed at her jokes anyway.

"Here." Grabbing his abandoned shoes at her feet, Zoë picked them up and carried them across the walkway towards him. The train was slowing, and this was their stop. "I won't say another word from now until we get back to our hotel. Scout's honor." She held up her hand. "And there, you will read my paper and we'll go to sleep, and that'll be the end of this disaster of a trip."


	14. Price You Pay

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**Tunes in Profile:**

_"S"_

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**Price You Pay**

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**May 20th, 2001

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**

Overcast grey threatened another fierce release upon the crowds littering Park Avenue any minute, causing herds of people to quicken their movements just a little. Some sought shelter, in a coffee shop or nearby lounge, to wait it out. Others readied their umbrellas, or grabbed a newspaper from a street stand.

Quillsh Wammy, too, moved just a little faster, blending and moving with the wave of people that surrounded him. It wasn't that he disliked the rain – he'd always had an affinity for it, even as a young man. Wherever he went . . . whatever part of the world he may have found himself, the rain was always the same. A comfort. A welcome constant, in a world of constantly changing variables.

But now that he was older, the rain didn't mix with him as well as it once had. As fit as a fiddle, he was; but the damp still found its way into his old bones. And another decade or so, it would find its way into his lungs, and probably kill him.

No. Rain was a young man's passion, the tempest a playful dalliance reserved for young lovers and their rapturous discovery of one another. For the rest of the world, it was only a bother.

Parting himself from the moving crowd with grace, Watari stepped under the awning of the Waldorf Astoria and out of the returning raindrops just in time.

"Good evening, Mr. Ashby." The doorman greeted kindly, having seen enough of him to know him by name.

"Good evening," he returned pleasantly. "How's the young missus?"

The young man brightened, leaning in just slightly to speak in a low tone. "Just found out today – in the family way. _Again_."

Watari smiled, unable to help himself. It was always good news to hear about a new one on the way, something he'd never had the honor of experiencing himself. And he liked this fellow – a good-natured boy, if simple – so he was genuinely happy for him. Even with all the misfortune he'd seen befall _so_ many children first-hand, he could still find a little joy in the miracle of birth.

"Lovely. And congratulations to the both of you. Now," he lowered his voice just a little. "Let that poor girl off her back for a while, eh?"

"To the choir, sir."

"Indeed. Take care." He gave a little nod before pushing his way through one of the revolving doors, and into the lobby.

Cream and gold, highlighted by well placed potted plants, decorated this private entrance just as it did the others. But this one had great white pillars in its architecture, while the other entrance boasted a highly reflective black marble. And instead of an old timepiece in the center, there was a great crystal chandelier and the cocktail veranda above. The ambient lighting had more of a pleasant white color here, in place of that deep yellow color that draped the rest of the hotel.

Two small flights of stairs, and he was at the elevators. The sometimes longest part of his day. Up to the Waldorf Towers, and then down from the Waldorf Towers.

He'd tried to explain to L, that the luxury suites on the top of the lower half of the building were just as nice as those in the Waldorf Towers, but the boy would have none of it. He wanted the view, he'd said. And he didn't like the color of the rooms, he'd said. And he needed the space of the extra rooms, he'd said.

And now here Watari was, riding an elevator for far longer than he thought was necessary. And he'd do it again, once he left. And then tomorrow, probably – at least twice.

He didn't mind, not really. The boy was young, he had to remind himself, and the young were picky. Something Watari hoped that L would grow out of, and the sooner the better. Then _he_ could look back, as an old man, and wonder just what the bloody hell he'd been thinking back then?

Watari smiled to himself at that. Until reality set in, that is, and he realized that the chances of L making it that far were slim. For as brilliant as the boy was, he did some rather careless things sometimes. He liked to take risks . . . to push and play with the limits of _everything_, and that _did_ bother Watari at times.

A quality that he'd noticed from the first time he'd met L, back at the detention center he'd found him in. The staff there had been desperate to get rid of him, and from the stories they'd told, Watari could understand why.

L had been a wild child. Fiercely independent, and completely unwilling to cooperate in any shape or form. Not that anyone blamed him, of course. Given the length of time he'd spent on the streets on his own, taking care of himself, it was a natural response. If he wanted to do something, then he would do it, and no amount of threatening from the staff could deter him from that.

A characteristic that, when he'd first arrived, had shown itself in his desire to leave. As soon as an adult turned their back on him, L was up and headed for the door. And according to the lead caretaker, he'd once gotten as far as the cement security wall that surrounded the center - where they'd found him trying to dig under the wall with a stolen bowl.

Watari hadn't been there for that, or any of his early misadventures. And by the time he'd come into L's life, they'd already resorted to locking the boy in solitary confinement – permanently. Like some kind of feral animal . . . of no use to anybody.

Officially, he'd been told that it had only been for a few weeks. But Watari knew, without a doubt in his head, that they'd kept him locked up in his cell like that for _months_. He ate there, he slept there, and he sat there. For hours sometimes, huddled in one of the corners with his back turned on the world. Completely silent and unmoving.

Watari had seen it dozens of times before – grown men broken down to _nothing_ in such prolonged circumstances. And though he'd never seen a child treated that way, he'd recognized the signs of such treatment nonetheless. Vacant eyes. Pale, sickly skin. Inability to sleep properly, thanks to a scrambled Circadian Rhythm.

He'd been one of the worse cases Watari had ever witnessed. Even bringing the boy to the orphanage had not completely restored him, he was scarred so badly. Truth was, nothing had. He'd improved . . . he still improved, even. But he'd never made a full recovery into the carefree, bright-eyed boy Watari was sure he'd once been.

Instead, he'd grown into an indifferent, sometimes vicious, often ruthless young man who didn't possess the ability of knowing when to _stop_. A trait, much like everything else he noticed about L, that often reminded him of a Pit Bull terrier his older brother had once owned.

Watari remembered the animal quite clearly. A surprisingly intelligent beast, fiercely loyal, and possessing of a great love for the children – especially his youngest nephew. Everywhere the boy went, that dog followed without question. A bond – that special friendship between boy and dog – that had lasted years.

But as the animal had grown older, a tendency for aggressive behaviour had started to reveal itself. _Never_ towards the family, but towards other dogs and occasionally a certain visitor or stranger on the street. Occurrences that had worried his sister-in-law, but that his brother had simply written-off as the dog's protective nature.

Watari still recalled the day his brother had been proven right in the matter. The day his brother's wife had taken the children to her mother's home, while he and his brother had driven the dog out to the country. And on the way to a sunny patch of grass in the middle of nowhere, Miles had relayed the story to him, on the brink of tears.

His son, walking home from school, had been assailed by one of the neighbourhood delinquents . . . a young man who'd had a fancy for little boys, and got away with it because of who his father was. The bastard had managed to drag his boy off the main road, and into an abandoned cottage not far from his own property. And the dog, who everyday waited for his owner at the end of their driveway, had heard what his human counterparts couldn't, and had managed to track them down. Ultimately, the son escaped - running home to fetch his father with a hysterical tale.

Miles found the dog minutes later, still where his son had left it, with its jaws locked shut around the boy's throat. He'd tried to use a stick, he'd said, to pry the animal's mouth open; but the young man had already passed.

And when Watari had watched his brother take that dog, as tame as ever, and put a bullet through its skull, he hadn't known what to feel about it.

For the love of his boy, that dog had set upon that scoundrel with murder in his heart, and had paid the ultimate price for it. It didn't matter that the young man had deserved it, or that he'd saved his owner from the unthinkable. Nor did it matter that he'd most likely spared other children from the same fate.

The creature had taken a human life. Because of a killer instinct inherent in the animal - an aggressive nature that often overpowered anything else - the dog had gone too far. The whys of what triggered it didn't matter.

And sometimes, Watari wondered if that dog had understood what the consequences would be? Had it made a conscious decision to give up its life to protect its owner? Or had it simply been a blind reaction, intensified by fierce emotion?

He wondered . . .

Did L understand the consequences of _his_ actions? Just like that dog who had killed in order to protect his owner, did L make conscious decisions to sacrifice his own life and the lives of others in order to achieve his goal? Or was it simply a blind reaction, intensified by vehement aggression and that competitive spirit?

He'd never seen the boy express any kind of remorse for the lives lost to his cause. If he experienced regret, he hid it extremely well. But then, human beings weren't quite real to L. He associated with them, of course, on the streets or in passing. He interacted with them for the sake of his work, even sometimes on a very personal level. Whether it was a victim in one of his cases, or someone who possessed information that he needed, L could gain someone's trust with the best of them.

Beyond that, though, they were phantoms to him. Like oil and water – he might mingle, but he could never mix with them entirely. And Watari wondered if it was that distance L kept from them . . . that detachment from humanity that facilitated L's ability to use and sacrifice them like pawns.

It was, after all, easier to kill a stranger than a friend. And if L lacked the programmed responses one typically learned from emotional stimuli, it became a great deal easier.

But that didn't explain the disregard for his own life that he sometimes, but not often, demonstrated. Was it still that belief of being _invincible_ that the young suffered from, until the judgment centers of their brains could mature completely? Or did he simply not care, despite Watari's best efforts to instill in him personal safety, survival, and self-control?

Did he even realize? Or was he, like that dog, blinded by emotion and instinct? Maybe it had been an error of Watari's own judgment to give the boy free-rein at such an early age . . .

A sharp _ding_ told him he'd arrived on his floor, and Watari was yet again reminded why these rides were the longest parts of his day. They gave him time to think, and there were just some things that he didn't like thinking about.

Only a handful of doors were on this floor, the one in the farthest corner being L's. Using his own key, he let himself in and closed the door behind him with a little more force than was necessary. He'd never walked in on anything before, and he wanted to keep it that way. It was, as far as Watari was concerned, just good business to let a twenty-one year old boy, living by himself, know you're coming.

As it were, L had been waiting for him and had popped his head into the entrance corridor only a few seconds after he'd closed the door. And he looked horrible – not much different than when Watari had first met him, honestly.

He still had those other-worldly eyes – eyes that could strike the fear of God into even the most staunch of disbelievers. And that wild hair that Watari had _never_ seem him touch. With anything. Not fingers, a comb . . . nothing. It looked like it was in desperate need of a wash, too – the locks sticking together and falling limp about his head.

His clothing fared no better. The white of his shirt had tinges of reds and browns from cherry juice and chocolate, respectively. And his jeans were wrinkled terribly, a few of the same chocolate spots here and there.

He'd have to remind the boy to shower. Again.

"Anything?" L asked as Watari shrugged out of his coat and put his hat on the antique, wooden stand.

"Nothing. Not so much as an incident report on file."

"And Wedy?"

"Onboard, and not too happy about it." He didn't relay the _little shit_ comment. Maybe another time, when L wasn't already on edge.

"She'll get over it." L said, dismissing her reaction to his forced employment of her with a little sigh.

"Let's hope so. She sent something along, by the way." Turning through the folds of his coat on the stand, Watari located his pocket and produced the envelope he'd completely forgotten about.

"What is it?" L stepped away from the doorjamb, his eyes examining the letter being offered curiously.

"I don't know. Would you like me to read it and find out?"

L snatched the envelope from his hand with a simple "No."

Watari followed when he retreated through the doorway, and back into the parlour. Tossing the letter onto the cocktail table, L stepped onto the sofa to reprise his crouch in front of his coffee. Beside him, the contents of a red MI5 file were sprawled out over the cushion. On one of the end tables, his laptop sat – open and ready.

Watari recognized the file as the one given to him by a colleague in the Ministry of Defense. A man no longer living, the story around the campfire being that he took his own life with an antique revolver in his home office, only days after relaying the file to Watari. A story he didn't want writing itself into L's life.

"L . . ."

He trailed off, unsure of whether he should say anything at all. It wasn't that he didn't have great confidence in L. He did . . . the greatest. But the territory L was intent on treading was territory that Watari knew like the back of his hand. He knew what these people were like . . . how far they would go to ensure their own survival, and the silence of all involved.

When he didn't continue, L turned to stare up at him in question. "What is it, Watari?"

This wasn't going to go over well, but it had to be done.

"I think it best to leave things alone at this point."

He didn't need to elaborate any further than that – L understood completely. But understanding didn't mean agreement, and getting L to agree to giving up on something like this was unheard of. His jaws were already locked in place, and it was going to take one _hell_ of a break stick to pry them free.

"I can't do that." If the boy was surprised at hearing him say such a thing, he didn't show it. He sat as still as ever; his hands resting casually on his knees, his eyes empty and calm.

Reaching out, Watari pushed the laptop in front of him closed. "You have to."

It was rare for Watari to tell L what to do, and L reacted just as Watari thought he would. Black eyes narrowed at him, in preparation of L digging his heels in, and his jaw set in anticipated refusal.

"Is that your professional opinion?" L asked in a deceivingly neutral tone.

Watari knew better. L was pissed, and with good reason. He himself didn't like hearing anyone give up, and he knew L hated hearing it from him. Still, the boy was going to get himself in a lot of trouble or worse, and it was Watari's responsibility to prevent that. Stepping around the table, he moved to seat himself in one of the gentleman's chairs across the coffee table, opposite of L. Dark eyes followed his every movement, expecting the unexpected. Watari looked away from them, opting to examine the aged skin of his hands instead.

"It's the opinion of the man who cares about your life, and his own. What you're going up against . . ." He let that thought go, deciding to take a different route. "In theory, no one should escape **L's** justice. In reality, there are those who should be left alone. You've seen first hand what they'll do when threatened. Is that how you want to end up?" He looked up, his eyes serious and concerned.

He wasn't getting through, or if he was, he couldn't tell. L's eyes gave nothing away aside from their sudden interest in the abandoned piece of cake on the table.

"I can't." L repeated softly, more to himself than Watari.

"You have little choice, L. There are some things that even you can't fix."

Ink black returned sharply to soft grey, and Watari found himself regretting his choice of words under that penetrating stare.

"I won't. I'm finished discussing this." L gave firmly, his eyes daring the older man to challenge him.

"_L_–"

"_No._" L cut him off fiercely, standing up suddenly as if he meant to do harm. "This is not how things are supposed to end. People do not just vanish into thin air."

"They have, and they will." Watari managed to remain calm, thankful that he had years of experience at this. The boy's bite was much worse than his bark, but it rarely ever manifested itself in violence against others. And it was never directed at himself.

"Not under my watch." L shot back with all the confidence one would expect to find in a King defending his country.

"It's _over_, L. What's done is done, and there's not a thing you can do about it without putting your own life at risk. The case is closed, and the wisest thing you can do, right now, is to leave this behind and continue forward." Watari paused, swallowing that lump forming in his throat.

"You're asking me to turn tail and run?" L took the opportunity to ask, his eyes wide in surprise. "Like some kind of . . . recreant?"

"No." Watari quit his seat and stood. "I'm asking you to do only what was requested of you. You were supposed to come here and empty that safety deposit box, and that's as far as your duty lies. All the information related to this case has already been given to you." Watari made an effort to warm his voice, as if speaking to his only son.

_Pleading_ his only son.

"You were never meant to know anything beyond that . . . for your own protection . . . to protect you from _exactly_ what you're doing now. What good will you do anyone if you're cold and dead?"

"I think I'm entitled to know what happened." Anger clenched the hands at his side into fists, compressed cracked lips into a thin line.

"Perhaps you are. Perhaps your answer is in that letter." Watari pointed to the table between them as he spoke, though L was no longer looking at him. "But a great deal of effort went into preventing this, L. Maybe you should respect that, if nothing else."

"How can I believe that?"

"How can you not? Do you honestly believe that you'd be sent on a course of action that would result in your own death? That's something only _you_ would do, L."

Christ, that sounded terrible. Especially now, given the circumstances. But it was the truth, and neither of them had been much interested in dressing it up. There was no greater disservice Watari could do to this boy, in his opinion, other than failing to give it to him straight.

L didn't respond; he just stood there, staring down at the table, a finger suddenly grazing along his bottom teeth. He was thinking about it, at least. And Watari thought it a good time to vacate himself, for the time being.

"I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, unless you call."

"Fleet Week starts tomorrow. I may go to the ship terminal." L commented in a far-away voice.

"I'll check with you in the morning. Do you have your list?"

He didn't move, other than the fingers suddenly delving into his pocket to pull out a crumpled piece of paper with quick, messy strokes all over it. He handed it to Watari in a mechanical motion, his mind elsewhere.

"Please consider what I've said," Watari spoke softly, folding the paper neatly in his fingers. "I'd follow you into hell, so be sure it's for a good reason." He didn't need L to acknowledge his words – he knew the boy heard him.

Stepping around the table and sofa, Watari made his way back into the entry foyer where he retrieved his coat and hat. It wasn't the usual _Watari_ get-up – he took care of that at his own hotel. Just light garments designed to keep him dry.

"And bathe. You're filthy." He threw back into the parlour as an afterthought before heading through the door, and closing it quietly behind him.


	15. Carpe Noctem

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